Resident Evil: Biohazard Within
by schally
Summary: As one of Umbrella’s newest employees, Milla Kiselev is discovering that all is not what it seems at Umbrella Corporate Headquarters. Trying to stick to the feel of the games while keeping the cheese to a minimum. R/R for candy.
1. Chapter 1

Resident Evil: Biohazard Within Chapter 1 

UMBRELLA CORPORATE OFFICE, URALE CITY

OCTOBER 5, 1998  

9:15 AM

               "Welcome aboard, Ms. Kiselev.  Umbrella Incorporated is happy to have you."  One of the three supervisors smiled at her, it seemed, and Milla Kiselev was inclined to smile back.

               "I'm happy to be here, sirs," she said, wondering how a place could be so light and dark at the same time.  The laboratories were brightly lit, as she'd seen, the light glinting off of the sterilized metal, white walls scrubbed to glistening perfection, and yet in the offices there was a certain dark quality—especially here, in the supervisors' office, where three superiors sat.  They had no nametags and, thanks to the bad lighting, no faces—they were merely shadows with one voice.  The shadow in the center did all of the talking, and she knew only from Corgan that his name was Allman.

               Kiselev felt out of place here, with the three shadows sitting in front of her and the two burly men standing behind.  These burly men seemed to be everywhere—soldiers out of uniform, standing at attention while trying not to look as though they were—and in spite of her five foot seven build, which supported a strong-boned face and dark hair inherited by her Russian parents, she found herself feeling very small and inadequate.  She took comfort in the fact that Umbrella had found and hired her because she was smart, very smart, and she credited that to her Russian parents as well.

               "Mr. Corgan will give you a tour of the facilities," the center shadow, Allman, was saying, and Kiselev rose, giving a polite nod and turning—she might have shook with them, but their hands never strayed above the desk they sat behind.  "And Ms. Kiselev?"

               She turned back.

               "There have been some unfortunate rumors as of late regarding the company.  All unfounded, of course, but we are encouraging all employees to refrain from speaking to the press.  We are a very successful company, and sometimes that's all it takes to stir the ire of others.  It would be most unfortunate if an employee's words were misconstrued."  Allman had leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the desktop.  His face was a bit more visible now and he seemed to be giving her an knowing, apologetic smile.

               "Yes, sir.  Of course."  She nodded again and turned to leave.

               "Mr. Corgan, a moment…"

               As Kiselev stepped outside, she heard one of the shadows say, "We don't want another Birkin—" and the voice was cut off abruptly as one of the burlies closed the door.

               When Corgan joined her minutes later, he had his usual, pleasantly neutral expression, and she automatically fell into step with him as he walked down the hall.  She knew Corgan because she had interviewed with him twice.  He had already, in fact, shown her the labs.  "You'll be conducting most of your research in lab 105B, and you will frequently share projects with lab 105A," he told her.

               She gave a soft laugh, and when he shot her a questioning look, the edges of her mouth shifted in a guilty sort of smile.  "It's just funny to me.  In Vancouver we had the neurolab, the cardiolab, and so on, but here everything has a serial number.  How do you remember it all?"

               "We encourage employees to stay in their designated sections," Corgan told her briskly, running his keycard through a slot.  The light blinked from red to green.  "You'll only have to remember your own lab number."  He gestured towards a series of lockers as he stopped in front of them.  "Every main hall has hazmat suits for when there are drills.  Expect a drill at least once a week.  The supervisors have already passed a memo about it.  We want everyone to be well-versed in safety precautions.  It's unlikely that anything will ever go wrong, of course, but it never hurts to be prepared."  He reached into his pocket and removed a second card, which he handed to her.  "Your card key.  Only one issue per employee, no exceptions, so don't lose it.  You can use it to access your own lab and any level one hazmat locker."

               Kiselev slid the card into the slot.  The locker gave a soft beep and slid open, revealing the shiny yellow hazmat suit beneath.  Kiselev stared at it for a moment, admiring the beauty of it—the smooth yellow material gently curving under the black-lipped face mask, all connected by the durable, flexible bodysuit—working in the hazardous chemicals unit in Vancouver as a graduate student had taught her a special appreciation for these suits; just looking at it, she felt an urge to kiss whoever had invented them.  In this line of work, a hazmat suit was oftentimes the only thing between a researcher and permanent disfiguration, or worse, lethal infection.

               "Just level one lockers?" she asked, fully aware that Umbrella's lab levels went up to five.

               "Security is our top priority, Ms. Kiselev," Corgan said, and that was the end of that.  He showed her a few of the level one labs, as well as the level one staff room, and while he was rattling on about containment protocol she studied the walls.  Though the building had quite a lot of signs on the wall, the majority of them maps to fire exits and protocol signs, this room's walls were lined with photos and certificates and she viewed these with interest, her eyes flitting from one framed item to the next.  The only other personnel she'd seen in the labs had had their backs turned or were shrouded in suits or surgeons' masks, so she couldn't recognize any of the faces, but the name on one of the center-most plaques caught her eye.

               _Awarded to William Birkin in 1996 for outstanding research in genetics._

               "Who's William Birkin?" she asked, and Corgan looked at her sharply.  

He blinked at her, twice, and his eyes traveled to the plaque.  "Oh," he said, and his tone was difficult to peg.  "Birkin was one of our top scientists.  He was a brilliant man."

"What happened to him?"

"There was a tragic accident recently, an explosion at the lab he was working in.  I'm sorry to say he passed away."  Corgan frowned at the plaque as if willing it away.

"I'm sorry," Kiselev said uncertainly, but Corgan merely opened the door to the hallway. 

"I'm sure you're ready to get to work," he said, leading the way to Lab 105B.

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 105A

10:49 AM

               "Jesus Christ," Kiselev said, standing in the doorway to her office.  Corgan had left her, saying that Umbrella had already transported her files to her new office—and he was right.  Her files had been transferred.  Right into a miserable pile in the middle of the floor.  Kiselev blew a strand of hair out of her face, annoyed, and squatted down next to the pile.  It would take a day to get the files back in order, at least.  How unprofessional.

               "Nah, he didn't do it.  Not his style," a voice said.  She glanced towards the door where a bird-like man was leaning against the frame, grinning, his brown hair arrayed in a turbulent mess around his head.  It took a moment for her to connect the two—Jesus Christ and the dumping of her files.  A joke.  And just when she was beginning to think no one at Umbrella had a sense of humor.  

She smiled at him.  "I guess not.  Is the welcoming committee always this rough?"

               "Did the same thing to me.  You'd think they were looking for a cure for cancer in there or something."  He leaned forward, extending a hand, and they shook.  "Daniel Moss.  105A."

               "Milla Kiselev.  I'm in 105B."  

               "Ah.  Nice to meet you."  Moss squinted at her.  "Now, I'm not hitting on you or anything—well, maybe I am—but don't I know you from somewhere?  Kiselev.  Kiselev.  Harvard?"

               "Yeah."

               Moss' face lit up, a grin stretching across his thin face.  "I knew it.  Class of '92.  Gave the old guys a run for their money.  The papers loved you 'cause you were some type of prodigy.  That must be tough, being a kid in a place like Harvard.  Hey, I know.  I had a hard enough time there and I was a twenty-something."  

               "It wasn't so bad," Kiselev said, dragging a chair over to the pile.

               "But you specialized in chemistry, didn't you?"

               She raised an eyebrow at him.  "Yes, that's right.  Chemistry's what I enjoy, but I've got a degree in genetics and Umbrella was persuasive.  They put their money where their mouth is."  Kiselev plucked a file from the top of the pile, shuffling the papers inside.  "I'm surprised you remember me."

               "Photographic memory," Moss said, tapping the side of his head.  "It's a wonder for pop quizzes.  Y'know, it's funny, but I'm a similar case.  I mean, I'm not exactly a specialist in… this…"  he spread his arms to indicate the building, or perhaps the world in general.  "But they wanted anyone with any experience, and I've got a little."  He held his fingers a few centimeters apart.  "About that much.  Gene splicing is, you know, a hobby of mine."

               "Where did you work before?"

               "NASA.  I was a real-life rocket scientist.  It looked great on business cards."  He sat on the edge of the nearest desk, leaning forward on his palms.  "But that's boring form information.  You wanna hear some dirt?"

               Kiselev gave him a look and began stacking some of the files.  "I don't know.  Do I?"

               "Well, it's not about me.  It's about Umbrella being desperate.  Or persuasive, as you put it.  I overheard some level fours talking about how there was a freak accident recently.  Umbrella lost a lot of employees."

               "They quit?"

               Moss clucked at her.  "Not exactly.  They died.  And now Umbrella's hiring anybody who knows anything about _anything_ in genetics.  I'm glad you're in my wing.  The guy over in 105D is a real asshole.  They've been hiring in tons of new people.  That must've been some situation."

               Kiselev started another stack of files.  "Was it the same accident Birkin was in?"

               "You know about Birkin?" Moss asked, raising his eyebrows and leaning forward so quickly she was afraid he might fall over.

               "Well, Corgan told me that he died recently in an explosion."

               "That's not spooky at all," Moss said, sounding disappointed.

               "I'm not following."

               "Some of the other guys talk about him like he's some kinda boogey man or something.  Just little random comments, you know, they never actually say what happened to him.  But he was supposed to be brilliant—I don't mean smart like me, I mean smart like _you._"  Kiselev balked at the compliment, but said nothing.  "I dunno," Moss continued, not missing a beat.  "I figured he went crazy or something.  Or maybe he did all these horrible experiments in a basement lab somewhere.  You know, boogey man stuff."

               Kiselev gave him a small smile.  "When you worked at NASA, you didn't happen to be one of those alien hunters, did you?"

               "Har har."  Moss hopped off the desk.  "I do like the X-Files, though.  Want to come over and watch it sometime?"

               "No thanks."

               Moss groaned and pantomimed an arrow striking him in the chest.  "Well, that's the mandatory asking-outing thing.  At least I got it over with a minimum of bloodshed.  Corgan's already got some projects for us, but you'll probably be busy today.  I'll forward some stuff tomorrow.  All forwards go through the level superior, so it'll come from an address you don't recognize.  Don't worry about it."  He waved, stepped out of the office, then stepped back in.  "Oh, don't forget your card key.  They really hate that.  Not that I'd know…"  he shrugged and vanished down the hall, whistling.

               _At least he's friendly_, Kiselev thought as the whistling faded into silence.

               Sorting the files took less time that she'd thought.  The files didn't seem as if they'd been dumped on the floor so much as they'd been hastily rifled through, and by one she had filed them in the large filing cabinets along the wall.  She then went to the task of fixing up the lab computer.  Corgan had absolutely forbid her from bringing in her own laptop ("Too great a possibility for a security breach," he'd said) and so she had resorted to copying all of her important files to mini-discs.  Kiselev accessed her company e-mail, assuming that all she would have were "Welcome to Umbrella!" memorandums.  She was partially right.  Two of the three e-mails were from the level one supervisor, one reminding her that all employees were required to make weekly visits to the infirmary for inspection, and one reminding her not to talk to the press.  Kiselev deleted both and clicked on the third, preparing to delete it as well.  Her finger hesitated over the button.

FROM: AUMB@UMBRELLA.LAB3.SUN

TO: MKISELEV@UMBRELLA.LAB1.SUN

SUBJECT: RACCOON CITY
    
    City Guide No. 12
    
    -A Brief Look-
    
       Hello and welcome to Raccoon City!  As you will notice, our city is a 
    
    clean and private town dedicated to families. Raccoon City has partnered 
    
    with our friends at Umbrella Inc., in order to generate unprecedented 
    
    growth and stability.  Umbrella Inc. is a highly regarded and well
    
    funded organization that cares about its employees.  They have helped to 
    
    create many public facilities to make this city a safer place for 
    
    everyone.
    
      As we look to the future, I will continue to support Umbrella Inc. in 
    
    terms of new business developments.
    
      Please enjoy your stay in my lovely city.  Thank you.
    
    Michael Warren
    
    Raccoon City Mayor

NO MORE.

      Kiselev stared at the screen for a moment.  She'd never heard of Raccoon City.  No more what?  She shrugged it off as a mistake and deleted the message.   


	2. Chapter 2

Resident Evil: Biohazard Within Chapter 2 

UMBRELLA LABS 

OCTOBER 6, 1998  

7:11 AM

               "They say the early scientist makes the discoveries," the entrance guard crooned as Kiselev flashed her ID at him.  She managed a weak smile—she wasn't the morning person that _he_ clearly was—and made her way to the elevators.  It was true, Umbrella Labs didn't officially start working until eight, but Corgan had told her that researchers and scientists were encouraged to start early.  Besides, her files were in order, her programs were loaded on the computer, and she was ready to go.  Someone had already started a pot of coffee in the staff room and she grabbed herself a cup as she opened her locker.  She slipped on the crisp company lab coat and glanced absently at the plaque wall.

               Now, wait a second.  Something was off.  She frowned at the wall.  Maybe it was too early to be worried about these sorts of things, but something was definitely different.  She glanced at the framed pictures for a moment and it hit her.  

               The Birkin plaque was gone.  Some of the pictures were missing, too.  She could see now that all of the plaques on the wall had been respaced to accommodate, and the Birkin plaque, which had been on the end, was clearly gone.

               Corgan didn't strike her as an overly-sensitive guy.  Had her questions about Birkin really bothered him that much?  Then she thought about what Moss had said about Birkin being crazy.

               Whatever.  It was none of her business.  

               In her office, she turned on her computer and settled into her office chair.  As a level one, she probably wouldn't get very interesting projects, but that would change if she worked hard enough.  One of the reasons she'd signed on with Umbrella was because there was a high potential for promotion.  More levels meant more dollars.  It was time for that Harvard education to pay off.

               A mailbox popped up onto the screen, with a tiny Umbrella logo on the side, and a female voice chimed, "You now have mail."  Kiselev yawned, stretched, and clicked the mailbox.

FROM: AUMB@UMBRELLA.LAB3.SUN

TO: MKISELEV@UMBRELLA.LAB1.SUN

SUBJECT:  Umbrella BOW Publicity Material

                 Dev.  Code:  MA-39  Cerberus

                 Dev.  Code:  MA-121 Hunter

                 Dev.  Code:  Fi-3   Neptune

                 Dev.  Code:  T-002  Tyrant

   In addition to the above.  It is believed that several other BOW 

were created by means of accidental infection.  REST MISSING.

               Kiselev took a sip of her coffee and scanned the message before hitting the print button.  It must be the project information Moss had promised to forward.  Yay.  More serial numbers.  At this rate, she wouldn't be surprised if the foods in the cafeteria had them.  The names didn't sound familiar, and leafing through the thick Development Code book in her desk did not yield results.  She ran a search within the files Corgan had given her on several of the serial numbers, then on "BOW," and received the same error message each time: Level One Access Denied.

               So much for getting a head start.  _Moss could have at least forwarded a project report along with this data._  Kiselev grabbed the paper from her printer and walked over to lab 105A.  She found Moss sitting behind a cluttered mess of a desk, mid-yawn, his lab coat sprinkled with crumbs.  He already had a stain—probably coffee—on his lapel.  She might have said he had bed-hair if it hadn't looked equally disheveled the day before.

               "The memo you forwarded me is pretty cryptic," she told him.  She could hear muffled noises in the background, and by craning her neck, she could see that he had a tiny black and white television on his desk.  He was watching an old horror movie.  Night of the Living Dead, from the look of it.

               "What memo?" Moss asked groggily, wiping his eyes tired blue eyes.  "I just got here."

               Kiselev extended the print out towards him.  "I tried to look up the serials but none of them were in the book."  She walked over towards his filing cabinets, examining some of the knickknacks sitting on top.  She picked up one of the plastic figurines.  It was a blue ninja with a sword.

               "Where did you get this?" Moss asked sleepily.

               Kiselev glanced at him, still holding the ninja.  "From you, I thought."

               "This is a level three forward.  Technically, you're not even supposed to get forwards from other levels.  Everything forwarded to you should come from the level one supervisor.  At least, that's what Corgan told me."

               _Oh. _She hadn't been paying attention.  Kiselev put the ninja back, facing him towards a green plastic frog so they could 'fight.'  "Well, that was a waste of time."  Moss handed the memo back.  She started to throw it in the garbage can, but his wastebasket was beyond overflowing, so she stuck the memo in her pocket.  "Forward me those files, would you?"

               "Already wanting to work?" Moss groaned.  "I won't even wake up until noon.  You smart people are all alike."  He gave a loud, long sigh and swiveled in his chair.  "You can take that folder on top of the stack over there.  That's the project overview.  A lot of it's blacked out, unfortunately.  I guess that's the allure of getting promoted—you get project reports with less lines marked out.  Anyway, we're supposed to test samples for specific mutations.  I'll see you in the lab later today."

               Kiselev flipped through the folder as she walked back to her office.  True to Moss' word the majority of the file was blacked out.  She had a vague mental picture of old WWII letters, where locations and landmarks would be blacked out by army censors.  She was wondering what could be so interesting about mutations in amphibian DNA when she heard typing sounds coming from her office.  Kiselev hesitated outside of the door, then stepped inside.

               Corgan was sitting at her desk.

               "Can I help you, sir?" she asked, and he jumped, startling both of them.

               "Ah, no, everything's fine."  Corgan stood up, a little too suddenly, and knocked over some papers and the Development Code book.  "A virus was detected on the main computers and I had to remove it manually.  We believe someone accessed a level three account and sent it to different departments."  He glanced down at the monitor, then looked back up at her.  "Also, Ms. Kiselev, I'm going to have to ask you to refrain from disconnecting your computer from the network."

               Kiselev frowned at him.  "I haven't."

               Corgan rose, tapping a long, blue wire with his finger.  "This cord was unplugged when I came in."

               Kiselev fought a rising wave of irritation.  First he was messing with her computer, and now he was accusing her of lying?  "Perhaps the cord was removed by accident, sir," she said, a bit sharper than she had intended.

               Corgan nodded, as if he didn't totally believe her, but the answer was acceptable.  "You haven't received any unauthorized memos, have you?"

               "Yes sir," she admitted.  "It was just gibberish."

               "Let me know if you receive any others," Corgan muttered, and he was gone before she could reply.

               Kiselev could feel her nose wrinkling up in spite of herself.  Company machine or no, it was still her computer.  There was nothing worse than a nosy boss.  She checked her e-mail and, as she suspected, both of the strange memos had been deleted.

               Someone had deliberately sent her those messages, then.  But why?  So Raccoon was another company city, so what?  What did it have to do with that list of development codes?  And now Birkin's plaque was gone.  An image of Nancy Drew peering over the Umbrella front counter popped into her head, and she batted it away as ludicrous.

What did it matter?

               Kiselev read the report and studied Moss' department forwards in a matter of hours.  As she had assumed, the work was highly rudimentary—she was only a level one researcher, after all—and it was busy work, at that.  She wouldn't be able to test the samples until later that day, so she logged onto the internet and searched for "Raccoon City."

               She'd thought Urale was a small company town, but Raccoon City must have been even smaller.  She found nothing.  She couldn't even find what state it was located in.

               On a whim she searched the company network for Raccoon City and came up with a variety of memos and a list.  The memos were all classified, but the listing was not, thought it appeared to be nothing more than a bare-bones text file of city names.  She scanned the list and noticed that Urale was listed as well.  Curious, she did a search on the network for "MA-39," the development code for something called "Cerberus."  This time several dozen memos came up, but again, all were classified.

               "Whoop-de-doo," Kiselev said.  _At least I know it's an actual project and not just a bunch of gibberish.  _She typed in "BOW," hoping to get words to go with the acronym, and a loud klaxon blared.  Kiselev jumped up, startled, as red lights began to flow down the hall.  Admist the glowing red and the loud wail of the klaxon she felt her heart jump into her throat.  She thought of Birkin's lab blowing up, and wondered which of the labs in her end of the complex had exploding things in them.

               Moss poked his head in the door.  "Scary, huh?"  His calm served as a tranquilizer for her own frayed nerves, and she felt her heartbeat slow a bit.  Not a lot, but a bit.

               "What's going on?"

               "That's the sound for hazmat.  Probably a drill, but you never know."

               The two jogged down the hallway to the hazmat lockers, which were deserted save a solitary man who was already half-dressed.  He didn't acknowledge them as they approached.

               Though Moss was a little slow getting into his suit, Kiselev shrugged hers on with ease, or at least, as much ease as one could have when dealing with such a bulky outfit.  As she fit the helmet snugly over her head she could hear Moss' muffled voice.

               "Catches you off guard, doesn't it?" Moss was asking the other man.  The man didn't even look at Moss, he simply finished putting on his hazmat suit and took off, jogging down the hallway.  Moss and Kiselev exchanged a look; Moss shrugged.  "Help me into this thing, will you?  Doesn't that guy know we're supposed to stay put?"

               Kiselev looked down the hallway in the direction the man had gone.  "Where is everybody?  Aren't there more people working on this floor?"

               "Yeah, all the labs are down here."

               Kiselev frowned.  There were a total of twenty-four lockers here, twelve on each side, and only three had been activated.  "Something's wrong."

               "Relax, Kiselev, it's just a drill.  Maybe they're testing us."  He glanced up at the wall clock.  "It's only eleven.  Still pretty early."

               "Not that early."

               "Kiselev," Moss warned, but she waved him off with a bulky hand.  

               "I'll be right back.  It's a drill, right?  What's the worst that could happen?"  Moss mumbled something that was lost in his helmet and Kiselev jogged down the hallway, following the path that the man had previously taken.  The lab doors that lined the corridor were all sealed and locked, their card key readers blinking red to signify an override lock.  Was that normal procedure?  Was that why nobody was in the hall, because everyone had been locked in the labs?  If people were locked in the labs in a real emergency, they'd never reach the hazmats in time…

               Kiselev darted down the hall, now full of purpose, and collided head-on with a man in a black suit that was coming down the stairs.  She let out a yelp of surprise and he grabbed her arms, pinning her to the wall.  

               "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, and for a moment, all she could think of was that his eyes were the same color blue as her father's car.

               "I—I thought maybe someone needed help," she managed lamely, her eyes flitting back and forth across his face.  The letters "UBCS" were stamped across the arm of his suit in faded yellow letters.

               "Get back to your waiting post," he snapped, releasing her, and she caught a glimpse of activity behind him.  Farther down the hall, several other men in black hazmat suits were struggling with something—somebody?—she couldn't make out.  She strained to see.

               He saw her looking and, with a sharp shove, pushed her back several feet.  "Go on, now," he said, and the electronic door slammed shut between them.  After a moment the light on the keypad turned red.

               "Well, that's nice," Kiselev huffed, and she walked back to Moss.

               "Pretty exciting second day, huh?" he asked when she told him what had happened.

               "Moss, I tried looking up some of the information from those memos on the network.  Not on our files, but on the Umbrella network.  I found results, but they were all classified."

               "The breaks of being a grunt, you know," Moss said, patting her shoulder with a large hand.  "Jackson—he was just promoted to level two—tells me that Umbrella has been promoting a lot of people lately.  He was promoted within a week, and he thinks all of the level ones with potential will be promoted within the next two.  Maybe then we can check up on  your mysterious memo, huh?"

               "Something tells me that level two clearance won't get me any further," Kiselev told him, but she smiled and added, "Still, we better do a good job on our frogs."

               "Aye.  Mutated frog DNA.  Like Ninja Turtles, only with amphibians.  Wait—there was a Ninja Turtle that was a frog, wasn't there?"

               Kiselev shook her head a little, and started to say, "I don't know," when the klaxon abruptly stopped.  The red light shut off and the usual hallway brights flashed back to life, gleaming harshly off of the yellow hazmat suits.  The laboratory card keys flashed from the blinking red of override lock back to the steady red of plain ol' locked.  The electronic door remained shut, but the elevator next to it gave a cheerful beep and opened, as if it had been waiting for this moment.

               "It's always anticlimactic, you know," Moss said, struggling out of his suit.  The two placed their suits back in the lockers and made their way towards the labs, where amphibian DNA was sure to be awaiting them.


	3. Chapter 3

Resident Evil: Biohazard Within Chapter 3 

UMBRELLA LABS – 105A

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14 1998  

2:37 PM

      The next week went without incidence, and for Kiselev, time passed quickly.  Frog DNA or not, it was still interesting to her—all genetics were—and she began to look forward to the tiny containers lined up in her lab tray.  Each mutation seemed to be unique in its own way, much as the scientific mythos of the unique snowflake, and though she had doubted the idea of anything truly unique in this universe of patterns, she suspected that genetics held the key to breaking the confines of universal sameness.

      Of course, she didn't tell Moss about this—he would only call her a nerd.  For a scientist, he was incredibly indifferent.

      It was because of this deep-rooted interest in her work that Kiselev was humming to herself as she prepared a new batch of samples for testing.  The samples had been increasing in mutations.  That was good.  The level one supervisor had told her that Umbrella was testing a new type of mutinagen, one that could help the human body adapt to disease by mutating the cells.  More mutations meant more adaptions, and for Kiselev, more patterns to study.  She rotated the tray on the platform, her gloved hand grazing the edge just enough to spin the tray around.  All of the samples were identical glass tubes with gray lids except for the last one, which had a bit of white paper on it.  A piece of label.

      "They left us a label this time," she told Moss, who was working on the other side of the lab.  The two had frequently joked about how the samples were never labeled.  Moss always teased that they were really studying alien DNA and that Umbrella was actually an extraterrestrial research facility.  Kiselev thought that was the stupidest thing she'd ever heard and that Moss watched entirely too much television.  "MA-121," she read from the label.  "Looks like our frogs have a name."

      "Yeah, Hunter," Moss said.

      Kiselev hesitated, the sample still in her hand.  "What?"

      "Hunter.  That sheet you had listed MA-121 with the name Hunter.  Remember?"  Moss tapped the side of his head.  

      Photographic memory.  She'd forgotten.  Kiselev placed the sample back onto the tray, her brow furrowed.  _Why would you name a mutinagen Hunter?_

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14 1998  

6:13 PM

      Kiselev bought herself an apple, a newspaper, and a bag of groceries on the walk home from work.  One of the benefits of living in a company town like Urale was that everything was within walking distance.  Urale was a small, clean town—she had seen photos of an younger, dirtier Urale in Ginny's Bar and she could tell, even from photos taken a mere five years ago, that partnering with Umbrella had been a big improvement for the city.  

      Her apartment was four blocks away, a tasteful building with shrubs and a nice view of other buildings and the road (well, you couldn't have everything).  There was a solitary envelope sticking out of the mailbox outside her door and she snatched it up.  

The phone began ringing as soon as Kiselev entered and she knew, instinctively, that it was her mother.  She slid the groceries onto the table, tossed the envelope onto her couch, and answered, still chewing on the apple.

      "Where have you been?" her mother asked.  "I've been calling since five."  Her mother's Russian accent was thick.  Kiselev hadn't even begun to notice it until high school, when one of her friends had commented that her mother "answered the phone funny."

      "I don't always work nine to five," Kiselev reminded her, removing a box of Nilla Wafers from the bag and working open the flap with the index finger of her apple hand.

      "I have had worry about you.  This whole Raccoon City has been in the papers for the past week."

      Kiselev stopped chewing.  "Raccoon City?" she echoed dumbly.

      "Do not tell me you have not been watching the news," her mother said.

      "I've been reading the paper," Kiselev said, glancing at her copy of the _Urale Times_.  The_ Times_ hadn't mentioned Raccoon City once in the past week.  It was such an unusual name for a city, she was sure she would have remembered.

      "Well, it is terrible how that city was destroyed, and it is only natural for your mother to have worry…"

      "Destroyed?"  Kiselev thought of William Birkin's lab accident.  

      Her mother said something that was obscured by a burst of static, and then, "…My daughter, being blown up.  Ah, it would be too horrible.  I could not sleep in the night.  What is this country coming to?"

"You mean one of the labs was destroyed, right?" Kiselev asked.  Her mother had a tendency to exaggerate when it came to the news.

"No, I mean the city was destroyed."  She could practically hear her mother frowning over the phone.  "I thought you said you have read the papers."  There was another burst of static.

"I have," Kiselev said.  Then, when the static continued, she added, "Mom?"

Her mother said something incomprehensible.

"Mom, I can't hear you, the connection's bad," Kiselev yelled.  Then she realized that yelling wouldn't do any good and, almost self-consciously, she lowered her voice.  "Hello?"

The phone went dead.  Kiselev pressed down the receiver, but no dial tone.  She glanced outside.  She could see the flag attached to the building across the street blowing steadily to the left.  

Kiselev picked up the box of Nilla wafers.  "The lines must have gotten knocked out," she told it before reaching inside and plucking out a handful.

She scoured the _Times_ for any mention of Raccoon City and found none.  What _was_ this Raccoon City?  Her mother talked about it being in the papers for the past week, yet there was no mention of it in the Times and her Internet searches had yielded nothing.

Kiselev picked up the phone and called Moss.

GINNY'S BAR

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14 1998  

8:02 PM

      When Kiselev saw Moss enter Ginny's she waved at him from her seat at the bar.  He waved back and headed over.

      "I'm glad you called me," he confessed, sitting awkwardly on the bar stool next to her.  "Otherwise I was just gonna watch X-Files reruns."

      "That's not bad for a Wednesday night," Kiselev said.

      "Yeah, but I do that on Fridays and Saturdays, too," Moss said.  He glanced dubiously at Kiselev's drink, then told the bartender, "I'll have what she's having."  Then, to Kiselev: "What _are_ you having?"

      "It's called a Red Snapper

      "Is it good?"

      "Listen, Moss, I want to tell you about something strange.  My mother called today—"

      "I thought you said she always calls on Wednesdays," Moss interrupted.

      "Yeah, she does, but she was worried about me—"

      "Hey, that's not strange at all," Moss interrupted again, adding an accusatory lilt to his voice.  

      Kiselev frowned at him.  Sometimes she wondered if Moss had ever been serious in his entire life.  "She said something about Raccoon City being in the news for the past week."

      Moss raised his eyebrows.  "_The _Raccoon City?" he asked.  Kiselev had told him about the first memo.

      "Yes.  She said something about how the city had been destroyed.  The connection went bad and I lost her before she could tell me anything else."  Kiselev took a swallow of her drink and leaned forward on the bar, frowning.  "It just doesn't make any sense.  She said that Raccoon City has been in the news all week, but I've been reading the _Urale Times_ since I got here and there's been no mention of it.  And why isn't it on the Internet, for that matter?"  She glanced at him.  "What do you think?"

      The bartender handed Moss his drink.  Moss lifted it to his nose, sniffing.  "If I tell you, you'll make fun of me."

      "No I won't.  That's why I'm asking you."

      Moss took a slow, deliberate sip.  "I suspect that Umbrella has been filtering all the Internet connections at the company."

      "I can't find any information on my home computer, either."

      "You live in a company-sponsored apartment, right?  They're probably filtering the connections there too, you know."

      "Why would they do that?"

      "Well, think about it.  Why would a huge company like Umbrella locate all of its corporate offices in obscure company towns?  Umbrella is trying to hide from the world.  Just the other day I read an article in the _Times _about how the labs have been hazmat-free for a month.  We both know that's a lie.  Something was happening two weeks ago—that wasn't just a drill.  Those UBCS guys were there for a reason."  He studied the expression on Kiselev's face.  "You don't believe me."

      "No, it's just… I had no idea you were so paranoid."

      "Working at NASA will do that."

      "Okay, fine.  So Umbrella is covering its tracks."  Kiselev finished off the last bit of her drink and set the empty glass on the counter.  "The big question is still the same.  What destroyed Raccoon City?"

      "Even Umbrella can't defend against nukes," the bartender said dryly as he walked past, scooping up Kiselev's glass.

      Kiselev and Moss stared at him.  "What?" they asked together.

      The bartender began mixing another drink and glanced down the length of the bar.  "Look, don't get me wrong, Umbrella's done great stuff for us.  But you gotta wonder when the government feels it's necessary to blow an entire city to smithereens."  He cleared his throat, as if he were finished, but the looks on their faces must have persuaded him to keep going.  "Rumor has it that there was some type of freak outbreak.  It was a company city, and now all these underground groups are saying that it was Umbrella's fault."  The bartender sat the drink in front of Kiselev and began to absently wipe the bar.  "But Umbrella makes medicine and stuff.  That just don't make sense to me.  You guys work there…  You don't think that an accident like that could happen here, do you?"  

Kiselev felt Moss nudge her under the bar.  She followed his gaze past the bar to a high, shadowed corner.  At first she saw nothing, but then she made out the vague line of a camera eye.  If Moss hadn't drawn her attention to the corner she never would have noticed it.

      "You've got to be kidding me," Moss was saying, taking another sip of his drink.  "Impossible.  And even if it could happen, do you think Umbrella would be behind something like that?  C'mon, what direction do I look to wave at the Candid Camera?"

      The bartender gave a small smile, looking relieved, and he rapped his fist against the edge of the wooden bar as if the change of subject required a physical movement.  "No cameras here, buddy.  Can't afford 'em.  I take care of trouble the old-fashioned way.  12-gauge."  He winked and sauntered off to the other end of the bar, leaving Kiselev and Moss to finish their drinks in silence.

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 105A

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15 1998  

8:31 AM

      When Moss entered Kiselev's office she was staring at the memo printout with the strange development codes.  She had attempted to smooth it out on her desk but many of the creases were still apparent, zigzagging to and fro like veins in the paper.

      "Tell me something good," she said.

      "I got one of these," Moss said, holding up a small white envelope, "and I'll bet you did, too."  Kiselev looked in her In-Box and, after a moment, withdrew her own envelope.  "Open yours first," Moss gushed in a falsetto voice.  "I'm all flustered and excited."

      Kiselev grinned at him and ripped off the top of the envelope.  "Congratulations on your promotion to level three—level three?  Your card keys have been updated.  Please clear your level one tasks with the level one supervisor.  Your new tasks will be assigned within twenty-four hours."

      Moss opened his own letter.  "Aw, me too.  I was hoping for a gift certificate.  'Good job, David.  We'll keep you at this easy job because you're so good at it.  Treat yourself to Denny's.'"

      "Do people normally get promoted two levels at once?" Kiselev asked.

      "Maybe they're _really_ desperate."  Moss shrugged.  "Now we can get some real work done."  

*     *     *

      It only took a matter of hours to complete their level one tasks, much to Kiselev's relief.  She was ready to move on.  Amphibian DNA was interesting, but her gut instinct told her that the higher level work had much more to offer.  Corgan had requested that she bring the data to him personally, and when she poked her head into Moss' office to offer to take his data along, he didn't object.

      "It's there," he said, pointing vaguely to a stack at the end of his desk.  He was immersed in another horror film.

      Kiselev leafed through the files as she stepped onto the elevator, standing next to a man that was already there.  She didn't pay any attention to him until he said, "Well, well," upon which she looked up.  The man was easily six-feet tall, his gray hair cut close to his head, and he looked down at her with neutral blue eyes.  "If it isn't the enthusiastic scientist."

      Kiselev glanced over at his sleeve, where UBCS was stamped in yellow onto the fabric.  Suddenly, she remembered those eyes.  He was the man who had berated her at the hazmat drill.

      "Which floor?" he asked, and there was something in his tone that ruled out common courtesy as his motivation.

      "Floor six," she said, looking down at her papers again.  The way he watched her was creepy.  It wasn't that he was leering—in fact, she thought she might have preferred leering to the blank, neutral stare he was giving her now.

      "What a pleasant coincidence.  You must be Kiselev, then.  That's a proud Russian name."

      "Yes, " Kiselev said, keeping her eyes glued to the report.  _Who _was_ this guy?_  The elevator rose quickly and smoothly to the sixth floor, uninterrupted, and Kiselev was all too ready to leave.  She walked quickly from the elevator to Corgan's office.  When she entered he looked up, nodded, and motioned to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk.

      "Ms. Kiselev, please, have a seat."  

      Kiselev heard the office door open again, and when she glanced to her left, she saw it was the man from the elevator.  He looked at her, but didn't smile, taking his seat in the chair next to hers.

      "Ms. Kiselev, this is Nikolai Ginovaef.  He's one of our acting supervisors and the head of the in-building UBCS team."

      "We've already met," Nikolai said, leaning back in his chair.

      Kiselev handed the folder to Corgan, keeping her eyes forward.  She didn't have to look at Nikolai to know he was still staring at her and the thought was unnerving.

      "Mr. Ginovaef reviewed your file and recommended you for promotion, Ms. Kiselev.  Your reports have indicated some rather ingenious insights regarding the your observations of the DNA.  Here at Umbrella, we appreciate insight."  Corgan flipped through the folder quickly, not really looking at it, and leaned forward at his desk.  "I'll shoot straight with you, Ms. Kiselev.  You've got a caliber of talent that we don't see often here.  You've got an innovative mind, and that's valuable to us.  I want you and Moss to continue to work together, unless you have any objections."  He steepled his fingers, studying her for a moment, then gave a small, thin smile when she silently shook her head.

      "No sir.  Moss is fine."

"Good.  As a level three employee, you will be expected to put in extra hours, but I believe you will find the rewards most beneficial."

      Something was up; Kiselev could smell it.  She nodded, resting her hands lightly on the arms of the chair, and tried not to look fidgety.

      "Kiselev, I called you here because I want to know if I can trust you," Corgan began, and Kiselev's heart leapt into her throat.  "There are some very… sensitive… projects in level three, tasks that I think your ingenuity would be well suited for.  Mr. Ginovaef agrees that, based on your current performance here and your past record at other companies, you would be well-equipped for the job.  This is classified information, Ms. Kiselev.  Umbrella does research that could very well change the way the world works."  He gave her a meaningful look, and added, "Here at Umbrella, we want our medical advances to aid humanity.  Towards a better future.  Can we depend on you?"

      Kiselev looked him in the eye and said, "Yes," and glanced at Nikolai in spite of herself.  His gaze was still neutral but somehow, underneath, she could swear he was giving her a predatory smile.

UMBRELLA LABS – 306D Kennel

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16 1998  

10:12 AM

      "Now this is important," Brewer said over the noise of the dogs, and Kiselev strained her ears to hear him.  They were in a lab kennel; a long, white hallway lined with cages, most filled with dogs—all, in fact, Dobermans.  Moss was still packing things up in their offices, which left Kiselev the task of taking the first tour of the kennel and the dogs.  The dogs were all either snarling or ill-looking, and Kiselev could swear that two at the end of the row were foaming at the mouth.  She mentioned this to Brewer, who only shrugged, rubbing his finger along the edge of his stubbled chin.

      "The vaccine we're trying makes 'em a little irritable, but they're fine.  These dogs are at the end of the testing phase, anyway.  By Monday we'll have a new control group to work with.  Like I was saying, it's important that you remember to double-lock each night, and you've gotta check these doors.  Remember, the animals must stay in a weekly rotation.  At the end of each cycle you make sure these animals get changed out for new ones.  No exceptions.  You got that?"

      "Yes," Kiselev said, raising her voice over the din.

      "I'm serious about this, Corgan will have your head on a platter if these animals get out of rotation.  And for God's sake, don't handle any of them if you don't haveta.  We have people specially trained for that."  Brewer opened the door to the observation room and shut it behind them, instantly killing the noise of the barking dogs.  "Even the meek ones can have a nasty bite," he told her.  Now that he wasn't yelling over the noise of the animals, his voice was softened by a slight Southern drawl.  The accent was calm and deliberate, resulting in a sound that was more polished gentleman than country bumpkin.  "If you ever get bitten, go to the infirmary immediately.  And I mean within an hour."  Brewer stopped and Kiselev bumped into his back.  He turned on her, squaring his larger shoulders at her.  "You got that?  Within the hour."

      "Yeah, I got it," Kiselev said, taking a step back.

      Brewer smiled, his shoulders relaxing.  "You just don't want to get an infection or anything.  Doberman bites can be awfully mean."  The smile snapped back into a thin line—he was complete professionalism again—and Kiselev found herself marveled at the seemingly instantaneous transformation.  "Now, be sure to fill out this checklist every day.  Mr. Ginovaef has been adamant that all formwork is filled out each day.  You can lose your job if you don't, so fair warning.  You might be able to get away with a little slack back at level one, but I run a tight ship here."  Brewer handed her a clipboard, then gestured towards a desk.  "Dev codes are there.  I probably don't need to tell you this, but that code book doesn't leave this lab.  Understand?"

      Kiselev nodded and Brewer smiled again.  "Well, nice to have you aboard, Ms. Kiselev.  The supervisor says good things about you.  Get a feel for the lab today, if you've got any questions, I'll be over in 306C."

      Kiselev sat at one of the desks as he left, idly flipping through the checklist.  The title caught her eye.

BOW MA-39, Cerberus – 5 Day Cycle

      Kiselev glanced out the viewing window at the caged dogs, most of which were still barking, even though nobody was in the kennel.  So this was Cerebrus.  The Dobermans sounded fierce, but they were nothing like the three-headed hell hound of their namesake.  

Were they? 

      Kiselev watched as the dog in the cage nearest the window snapped it's jowls viciously at some unseen menace, flecks of spittle flaying from its jaws.  Very intimidating, but still, very much of this world.

      Hell hound indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

Resident Evil: Biohazard Within Chapter 4 

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 306D

MONDAY, OCTOBER 19 1998  

7:46 AM

               Kiselev was pouring herself a second cup of coffee when Moss entered, rumpled as usual, and sporting two-day stubble.

               "Man, I thought I'd actually beat you," he complained.  "When did you get here?  Five?"

               Kiselev leaned across the counter, propping up on an elbow.  "Seven thirty."  Her attempt at a straight face did not conceal the fact that her brown eyes, wide and awake, were smiling.

               "What're you so happy for?" he asked, searching the table for some sugar.  "It's too early to be happy.  You should be angry.  You should be maaad.  Going to work before noon is an utter outrage."  

"I like dogs," Kiselev said.  

Moss stopped and glanced out the observation window.  "A regular bunch of pussycats," he said finally, dumping several packets of sugar into his mug and adding a bit of coffee.

"I know.  I was surprised."

Moss took a sip of his sugary concoction and studied the new group of dogs for a moment.  "So was the last batch a fluke or what?"  The new group was alert and awake, but unusually calm.  "When Brewer gave me the grand tour those puppies were downright nasty.  I thought a couple of them were going to bust out of their cages and bite my head off."

               "I don't know," Kiselev said, stepping out into the kennel.  Moss followed.  A lot of tail-wagging ensued as the two entered the narrow hallway, and a handful of barks, but it was nothing compared to the chaotic noise that had filled the hall on Friday.

               "Oh, they're happy puppies now," Moss commented, watching as Kiselev began to work on their checklist.  "But wait until we start sticking them with needles three times a day."

               "Only once," Kiselev corrected him.  "At noon today."

               "Listen to you.  I haven't even cracked a procedure report yet.  Are you going hardcore on me, Kiselev?"

               "Only because you're a sissy researcher," Kiselev said, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly.  "Don't come crying to me if you get left behind next promotion."  

"Touché."  Moss leaned against the wall, content to watch.

Kiselev walked down the hall, making marks, and stopped in front of cage five.  "My dad had a dog like this," she commented, motioning towards the cage's occupant, who bore a diamond-shaped patch on his chest fur.

               "What'd he call it?"

               "КОТ."

               "Does that mean what it sounds like?"

               "Yes."

               "You gotta be kidding me."

               "No.  Dad thought it was funny."

               "Well, don't get too attached.  We only keep these guys a week."

               "I thought you didn't read the procedure reports," Kiselev said absently, squinting to read one of the identification tags, which was slightly smudged.

               "Well, I read some of it."  Moss dabbed at his nose with the edge of his sleeve.  "Call me sissy all you want, I think I'm allergic to these mutts."  He turned abruptly and went back into the office, leaving her alone in the kennel with the dogs.

MONDAY, OCTOBER 19 1998  

12:02 PM

               "Is this necessary?" Moss asked, pulling on the helmet to his hazmat suit.  "I really hate these things."  Kiselev was standing patiently by the kennel door, one hand on the cart containing their equipment.  The kennel hall had been flooded with gas to put the dogs to sleep.  After the gas was pumped back out of the hall through the ventilation system, they would enter and give a 15cc injection to each animal on the neck.

               Brewer ran his pencil down the list on his clipboard, double-checking the items in the cart.  "Mr. Moss, these vaccines are extremely volatile.  If anything goes wrong, you definitely don't want any of it getting on your skin.  If either of y'all get pricked with one of the needles or exposed in some other way you'll be quarantined for at least two weeks."

               Moss and Kiselev exchanged a look.  "And we're gonna inject these guys with it?" Moss asked, fidgeting with his gloves.

               Brewer shrugged.  "Well, you could probably arrange to take their places."

               Kiselev was searching his face for a hint of a smile, but wasn't finding one.

               "No, no, that's okay.  The Doberman Union would get pissed if we stole their jobs."  Moss glanced out into the hall, then added, "Looks clear."

               Brewer ran his card key through the electronic lock and the door to the kennel slid open with a soft hiss, shutting behind them after they'd pushed the cart through.  Brewer opened the first cage and nodded to Moss.

               "Mr. Moss, if you could please hold her mouth shut," Brewer said, uncapping a syringe.

               Moss cupped his hands around the unconscious dog's muzzle, then gave Brewer a curious look.

               "You'll see why in a minute," Brewer said, aiming the syringe.  "The last few batches have been—" he injected the contents of the syringe and, within a second, the dog spasmed, letting out a whine and darting her head forward.  Moss pushed back, shoving the animal into the back of the cage, and Brewer slammed the door shut.  The dog bristled at them from inside, bearing her teeth, and Moss took a quick step back.  "—the last few batches have been doin' that," Brewer finished, recapping the empty syringe and laying it aside.  "Not sure why.  But now you see what I mean about being careful."

               They continued down the line, and Moss and Kiselev took turns injecting the animals.  Sometimes the dogs snarled or snapped when injected, sometimes not, but it always made Kiselev feel a little unnerved.  She was glad when number five had merely lain there passively and whimpered.

               The injections went without major incidence until the last cage.  Just as Kiselev was removing the syringe from the dog's skin, Moss lost his grip, and the Doberman lunged towards Kiselev, jaws snapping.  She flung her body backwards instinctively, throwing her arm in front of herself for protection, and somewhere between jerking backwards and hitting the edge of the kennel wall the Doberman's teeth connected with her hazmat, ripping the fabric.  

               Moss yanked the dog back into the cage and Brewer slammed the door shut.  The Doberman, having lost whatever energy it possessed, simply laid down and closed its eyes.

               "Did it break the skin?" Brewer asked sharply.

               Kiselev said no and, after examining her arm, Brewer gave a nod of satisfaction.  "Good.  You'll still want to stop by the infirmary, just to report the incident, but you can wait until we've dressed out."

               They filed out of the kennel, and as they pulled off their hazmats, Brewer plucked a clipboard off if its nail on the wall.  "Good job, both of you," he said.  "I'll check in on you periodically throughout the week.  If anything seems strange, let me know about it.  And Ms. Kiselev, don't forget to report to the infirmary.  Be sure to give them the suit for proper disposal.  And Mr. Moss, let's try to keep a tighter grip next time."  He gave them both a half-nod and stepped outside, leaving them to undress in silence.

               "Nice reflexes," Moss said when Brewer was gone.  "For a second there, I thought the puppy had you."  He smoothed his hair and added, "Sorry, Kiselev.  That won't happen again.  I should have had a better hold on him."  She could tell by the way he was biting his lower lip that he actually felt bad about it.

               "It turned out fine, so don't worry about it," Kiselev told him.  _It hadn't been that close of an ordeal, had it?  The animal had only just been injected…  _Kiselev took two aspirin for the pounding headache that had begun to manifest behind her eyes and, after sealing the suit up in a transfer box, headed down to the infirmary.

MEDIC BAY 3

MONDAY, OCTOBER 19 1998  

1:17 PM

               Kiselev sat on the edge of the examining table, tapping her foot against the metal legs impatiently.  The medics knew, just as well as she did, that there was nothing wrong with her, and they were taking their time with the examination, idly chitchatting to each other over coffee and bagels.  Kiselev had nicknamed them Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum in her mind because they wore no identification.

               "Do you think it's even contagious at this stage?" Dum asked, opening the hazardous waste containment unit but holding the torn suit directly over it with a gloved hand.  It was as if the suit repulsed him, and yet, he wasn't sure he wanted to part with it.

               "I dunno.  That's something we could test, if you want," Dee said.

               Dum hesitated, then released the suit, slamming the lid down after it.  "Why bother?  We did all that extra testing on the antigen and nobody even cared.  What a waste."  He peeled off the glove and threw it into a corner.

               Dee yanked a form from a nearby desk, biting into a bagel at the same time.  "As long as the Devil works, they don't care about much else."  He handed the paper to Kiselev, then began to fish in his pocket for a pen.

               "Whatever.  I still say it's better safe than sorry."  Dum sat down, grumpily, and helped himself to a bagel.  "Hey, you want one?"  Kiselev shook her head and he turned back to Dee.  "I don't care what Nicholai says, either, about not needing to develop other antigens.  Overconfidence is your own worst enemy.  They said the Titanic was unsinkable and look what happened to it."

               "You're paranoid."

               "I'm realistic."

               "You're _pissed_."

               "Well, that too.  Nicholai's an advisor now, strutting around like he owns this place.  And now those assholes at Raccoon aren't returning my sample queries.  The director says we have to get samples from the Paris lab instead because there's a malfunction at Raccoon.  How inconvenient is that?"  Kiselev looked up from her form, but Dum didn't seem to notice.  "I hate working with other branches, especially those French bastards.  How long does it take to fix an equipment malfunction, anyway?  Sounds like a bunch of idiots are running that place, if you ask me."

               Dee took a big bite of his bagel, chewing slowly.  "You should watch where you say stuff like that…"  He trailed off.  Neither of them looked at Kiselev, but she knew what the implication was.  She pretended not to notice, scribbling in a few more blanks and handing the form back to Dee, who had since begun work on another bagel.

               "Have a nice day," Dee told her as she left.

MONDAY, OCTOBER 19 1998  

6:11 PM

               It was when Kiselev was juggling the phone, her newly-washed hair, and a carton of ice cream all at once that the doorbell rang.

               "Well, shit," she said, and hung up the phone—nobody was answering, anyway.  She deposited the ice cream on the table and was sweeping her wet hair behind her ears when she opened the door.

               "Singing, dancing and juggling telegram for a Ms. Kiselev," Moss said cheerfully, sticking a daisy in her face.  He had picked it on the walk over, from the look of it—it still possessed a stray leaf and, upon close inspection, a tiny ladybug.  "I got us some Chinese," he continued, breezing past her, and when he reached the kitchen table he picked up the ice cream carton, tsking.  "Good thing, too.  This stuff will make you fat."

               Kiselev smiled.  "What are you doing?" she asked, shutting the door.

               "Fat, Kiselev.  Fat."

               She swatted at him, taking the carton from where he was waving it in the air.  "I heard you.  Fat.  But what's all this?  Don't tell me you still feel bad about this morning."  She tossed the carton into the freezer and opened the cabinet under the sink, hunting for a vase.

               "Well, you see…" Moss began, and he stopped.  "You look really pretty today," he said, and Kiselev stopped her search long enough to give him a suspicious look.

               "What is it?" she asked.

               "Well, I wanted to apologize because the dog thing wasn't, um, entirely an accident?"  He raised his voice at the end, making it sound like more of a question than a confession.

               Kiselev looked up at him again, but this time, the look was sharper.

               "Here," he said, looking abashed.  He handed her a folded piece of paper and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

URGENT FAX

TO: UMBRELLA USA CORPORATE HEADQUARTERS

FROM: SHEENA ISLAND LAB

DATE: OCTOBER 18, 1998

On October 10th, twenty subjects were lost due to mass suicide.  Unable to continue with Beta Hetero Nonserotonin research until more subjects are

               The bottom half of the fax was missing.  Kiselev handed the paper back to him wordlessly.  

"I thought you'd want to see it," he began slowly, and she whirled on him.

               "I almost got bitten because of _that_?" she demanded, shoving at him with her palms.  He didn't move backwards like she expected, and instead, she ran into him.  He stepped back quickly, but not before she felt the surprising hardness of his chest under his sweater.  She'd never pegged him as the sort of guy to work out.

               "You weren't in any real danger," he said, sounding offended.

               "David, that damn dog almost bit me!  I was almost put into a two week quarantine because of a shred of paper!"

               "I would never let one of those things bite you," he said, and there was such revulsion in his voice that Kiselev became silent.  "I had control of it."  He frowned at her, then added, "I didn't have to tell you about the note, but I did.  I saw Nicholai give it to Brewer earlier that morning and it wasn't until we were in the kennel that I realized I had a chance to get it.  I thought you'd want me to try, at least.  The fax ripped, but I was so glad he didn't hear the sound that I didn't even try to get the other half."

               She nodded once.  "You're right," she said, walking past him.  She briskly began to unpack the dinner he'd bought.  He'd just been trying to help her get a piece of the puzzle, right?  It hadn't been any more reckless than when she'd left her post at the hazmat drill, really.  "Okay, look.  Next time we're going to use me as doggy-bait, let me know about it."  She walked to the cabinet and when she had returned with two plates and a pair of glasses she was smiling.

               "What?" Moss asked.

               "Did you really think the daisy would make it all better?"

               Moss' ears turned red and Kiselev enjoyed a chuckle at his expense.  "Anyway," he said, pouring them both a glass of Pepsi, "what do you think about that fax?"

               "Animals don't commit suicide," Kiselev said, "and Beta Hetero Nonserotonin is only found in humans.  Whatever they're doing on Sheena Island, they're using humans as test subjects."

               "But it doesn't make sense," Moss said, fiddling with one of the food cartons.  "If they're already running tests on humans why the dogs?  Why the frog DNA?  I thought the reason Umbrella conducted animal testing was so that they wouldn't have to use humans."

               "Just because they're using humans on, uh…"

               "Sheena Island."

               "Just because they're using humans on Sheena Island doesn't meant they're using them here."

               "Maybe the animals are a cover-up," Moss said.

               "The injections we gave them definitely weren't placebos," Kiselev told him.

               "True.  Brewer was adamant about handling them with the hazmats, too."  Moss spooned a helping of Moo Goo Gai Pan onto his plate and took a sip of Pepsi.  "How was the infirmary, by the way?"

               Kiselev prodded her food with the edge of her fork.  "It was strange.  The medics complained that they weren't receiving communications from Raccoon labs, but they thought it was because of an equipment malfunction.  I don't think they have any idea that the city was destroyed."

               "I guess it's nice to know that we aren't the only ones in the dark."

               "The bartender knew."

               "Yeah, but he said that was just a rumor.  Come to think of it, we don't really have any proof that Raccoon City _did_ get blown up."

               Kiselev rolled some noodles onto her fork.  "You think all of this is a wild goose chase?"

               "No, there's definitely something going on.  Twenty people don't commit mass suicide because there isn't enough salt in their martinis.  What exactly is Beta Hetero Nonserotonin, anyway?"

               "It's a chemical secreted by the pituitary gland."

"Brain juice?"

"You could say that," Kiselev said, taking a sip of her Pepsi.  For some reason, she found herself thinking of Nicholai.


	5. Chapter 5

Resident Evil: Biohazard Within 

**Chapter 5**

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 306D

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 22 1998  

9:02 AM

               Inside the kennel, the sounds of the dogs were maddening.  Their increasing ferocity had been unsettling to both Kiselev and Moss.  The two kept to their offices as much as possible, not wanting to watch as the dogs stirred restlessly in their cages, snapping their jaws at any intruder—real or imagined.

               "Working here gives me the creeps," Moss told Kiselev Thursday morning as she was typing up a the Cerberus report for Corgan.  "Working three stories underground is bad enough, but those dogs are really stressing me out."  He walked over to the filing cabinet where he had arranged his little toys, setting the plastic frog, the blue ninja, and the pink dinosaur in a neat row.  He 'walked' the dinosaur across the cabinet, then made it 'eat' the frog.

               "What about the ninja?" Kiselev asked, looking up from her report.

               "He's next," Moss said menacingly.  "You may not want to look.  It'll be gristly."

               Kiselev tucked a stray hair behind her ear, wishing she had some toys to play with.  The umbrella-shaped mail icon lit up and she clicked on it, expecting yet another dull level-wide memorandum.  She scanned the e-mail, then said, "Moss."  There was something in her tone, her inflection, that conveyed importance.  He was behind her instantly, peering over her shoulder at the message.

FROM: AUMB@UMBRELLA.LAB3.SUN (MSTRUNLKNG)

TO: MKISELEV@UMBRELLA.LAB3.SUN

SUBJECT: MEMORANDUM

GV was only the beginning.  You must obtain five clearance to understand.  The key to promotion is modification of what you have.  They think you are the next William.  Use this to your advantage.  Unplug external connection or they will find you.  Delete this message.  

               Moss reached behind her computer and, without hesitation, yanked the thin blue cable out of its socket.  "I found out that AUMB accounts are reserved for guests," he said.  "Mstrunlkng?  Surely they could have thought up a better alias than that."

               "You must obtain five," Kiselev said.  "He must mean level five access.  I don't know what GV could stand for, though."

               Moss sat on the edge of her desk, closing his eyes.  She knew that he had already committed the memo to memory and was probably running through it in his mind.  "Who's William?" he asked finally.

               "I think he's talking about William Birkin," Kiselev said.  "I asked Corgan about it once.  He said Birkin passed away."  She leaned back in her chair, biting her lower lip.  "The next day, when I went into the staff room, all of the plaques mentioning him were gone."  

               "Umbrella thinks that you're the next William Birkin?  Look, don't take this the wrong way, but I heard he went nuts."  Moss circled his index finger around his ear.  

               "The key to promotion is modification of what you have."  Kiselev tapped her fingers against the edge of the desk.  "Modification of what I have."

               "I'd make a bawdy suggestion, but I think I hear somebody coming," Moss said.

               Kiselev deleted the mail and Moss leaned back to reattach the network cable.  He straightened up just as Brewer entered.

               "I hope you're not doing anything too terribly important, Mr. Moss," he said, sounding tired. 

               Moss went after him, making some joke about one of the new assistants, and Kiselev returned to her report, wondering what the truth was behind William Birkin.  

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 22 1998  

11:56 AM

               Kiselev leaned back in her chair, stretching.  She'd finally finished the report.  Finally finally.  She pressed the print button, thumped on the machine twice to make it work, and poured herself a cup of coffee.  It was almost lunchtime for the puppies, as Moss would have said.

               She walked over to the glass kennel door, peering in, and dropped her mug.  The glass shattered, coffee spraying across her feet and dotting the hem of her lab coat.

               There was blood on the floor of the kennel.  

               She ran forward, pressing close to the glass, and saw that blood was dripping steadily out of cage five.  She could see the pink tongue of the dog in the cage below as it lapped at the droplets.

               Kiselev threw on a hazmat suit, not even bothering to put on the helmet.  She grabbed the metal cart and, after running her card key through the door lock, pushed it into the kennel.  The noise of the dogs was sudden and deafening, and she winced as she slid the cart forward.  She walked towards cage five carefully, so she wouldn't slip on the blood, and peered inside.

Number five was a mess.  The dog looked as though it had some type of gangrene, with large sections of flesh missing, including the left ear.  It was difficult to tell whether the animal had mange or it had gnawed its own fur off, but the large sections of bloody skin made a glaring contrast to the patches of stiff, black fur.  Kiselev rattled the mesh of the cage, and when Number Five didn't respond, she opened the door.  The dog smelled horrible and her instant thought was that it was dead.  As far as she could tell the dog had chewed itself to death.  But why?  Kiselev glanced down at the cart.  Though it had been prepped for most common lab emergencies, it contained nothing that would help with this particular situation.

In the cage below Number Six was becoming excited.  He banged his head on the door, barking, pausing only to lick at the blood that dribbled down the mesh.  He seemed to be missing fur as well.  An outbreak of mange?  Kiselev wondered how they hadn't noticed it before.

She reached into cage five to pick up the dead dog, and when her fingers closed around its collar, it looked up.

"There you are," Kiselev said, surprised.

The dog lunged for her face.

Kiselev jerked away and slammed the cage door shut.  Number Five snarled at her, reared back on its hind legs, and smashed through the metal meshing.  The emergency alarm went off, bathing the kennel in a red glow, and there was a loud electronic click.

_God, no_.  Kiselev jumped backwards and slipped on the blood, landing hard on her elbow.  She grabbed the edge of the cart and shoved it into the charging Doberman.  The dog gave a whimper but was promptly back on its feet, snarling and tearing at the cart.

Number Six began to throw himself against the mesh of his own cage, and Kiselev could see that the cage door was starting to bend under the pressure.  All around, the dogs were barking and snarling, scratching at their cages.  She scrambled to her feet, still using the cart as a shield, and stumbled towards the door.  It was electronically sealed.  She turned, fighting Number Five back with the cart, just as Number Six burst from his cage.

"Somebody help me!" she screamed, even though she knew no one could hear her outside.

She saw a flash of white out of the corner of her eye, and when she risked a look over her shoulder, Moss was trying to open the door.  He tried the card lock and, when that didn't work, began to pound on the number pad.  He motioned her to stand to the side and she did, pulling the cart with her and using it as a barricade between herself and the dogs as they continued to snap at her.

Moss reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun, aiming as if he would shoot out the window.

Kiselev looked away, trying to concentrate on holding off the dogs.  _He has a gun?  Why the hell does Moss have a gun?  How the hell did he get it past security?!_

She glanced at him again but he was looking over his shoulder.  He holstered the gun and it disappeared into the folds of his lab coat as quickly as it had appeared.  

Number Six had worked his way towards her foot and was trying to bite the leg of her hazmat.  She kicked him, hard, and his skull felt strangely soft as her foot made impact.  The dog writhed on the ground for a moment, then got up, sluggishly, and began to snap at her again, though decidedly slower.

Kiselev rammed the cart forward, knocking both dogs off balance.  She heard the sound of the lock being deactivated and as she turned, expecting to see Moss, a black hazmat rushed past her.  The man in the suit pointed his gun and fired, and pieces of Number Six sprayed both of them.  Kiselev stepped back and felt a hand close around her arm, jerking her out of the kennel.  Two more men in black hazmats rushed into the kennel, the letters UBCS printed neatly on their suits, and the door shut behind them.

"Ms. Kiselev," a voice whispered sharply, and she found herself staring into the cold blue eyes of Nicholai Ginovaef.  "I recently met a determined young woman not unlike yourself."  He leaned closer, his face mere inches from hers.  "You remind me very much of Jill Valentine, Ms. Kiselev, but it would do you good to remember that bravado can lead to dire consequences when unprepared."  He pulled his face away from hers, giving her the illusion of space, but his hand was still clamped onto her arm.  "You weren't equipped to deal with this situation.  I think that if you realized how grave the circumstances could have been, you might be more careful in the future.  Meet me in my office tomorrow at nine, Ms. Kiselev, with a full report."

She heard herself uttering a "Yes, sir," but she couldn't remember moving her lips.

"Sir," Moss said, "I'll take her to the Infirmary."

Nicholai's grip vanished as though he had never been touching her and Moss took her by the arm in a way that was noticeably gentler, yet still similar.  She thought of Moss' gun, and had a flicker of indecisiveness, but decided that dealing with Moss and whatever weapons he had was better to the alternative—Nicholai's cold, blue gaze.  

"What was he whispering to you?" Moss asked when they reached the hall.

"Who the hell are you?" Kiselev asked, aware that he was still holding her arm.

"Don't talk about that here," Moss said, and his voice was strangely abrupt.  Kiselev stopped in front of the restrooms, forcing him to jerk to a halt, but he still didn't let go of her arm.  "What's the matter?"  He laughed, but it sounded forced.  "Don't you trust me?"

"Let me go."

"Listen, Kiselev, I'll tell you everything, but this is not the—"

"I'll scream."

He turned on her, faster than she'd ever seen him move before, and pushed her backwards, through the door to the women's restroom and against the wall.  He clamped a hand over her mouth, peering down the line of stalls, then whispered, "I'm an agent from an anti-Umbrella organization."

Kiselev stopped struggling and he released her, but stayed close, his hands on either side of her blocking any escape.  "Why didn't you say so?  You mean all this time--"  She cut herself off, giving him what she hoped was a nasty look.

"I wasn't sure I could trust you.  This is the last place we need to discuss this.  If they ever find out, they'll kill both of us.  They'll think you were in on it."  He was still whispering, but his voice sounded strangely loud in the empty bathroom.  "I'll come over tonight and explain everything."

"No.  Ginny's," she said.

He started to respond, but was interrupted by a loud creak as the bathroom door opened.  A woman in a lab coat stepped in, saw them both, and blushed, uttering a soft, "Sorry," before backing out and into the hallway again.

They both relaxed.  Moss turned back to her, smiling slightly, and reached over, running his forefinger down the side of her face.  When he pulled his finger away the tip was bright red.  "You got some puppy behind your ears," he said.  Though he was smiling at her, his voice was grim.  "Ginny's has the cameras," he reminded her.  

"Then you'll have to be on your best behavior," she said.  She shoved him away and he let her, stepping back with a flourish.  "I'd like to get to the infirmary before my hair falls out, too."

She pushed open the door, and as it shut behind her, she distinctly heard him say, "If only it were just that."


	6. Chapter 6

Resident Evil: Biohazard Within 

**Chapter 6**

GINNY'S BAR

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 22 1998  

7:34 PM

                Kiselev took a sip of her drink, a Red Snapper, and tried to clear her head.  Drinking alcohol probably wasn't the best idea at the moment, but in light of the current situation she felt the risks were justified for the sake of calming her nerves.

            Moss working for an anti-Umbrella organization?  She hadn't seen that one coming.

            She leaned back in the corner booth, positioning her body so that she could watch the entrance without much effort.  The booth was far enough away from the bar to give them some privacy without making her feel too vulnerable.  She glanced at her watch.  Four minutes late.  She'd managed to avoid Moss for most of the workday but now she was impatient and ready for answers.

            When Moss arrived she watched him as he went to the bar, got a beer, and walked over.  He was wearing a rumpled T-shirt and his hair was tousled.  Same old Moss, but somehow he looked different.

            "Hi," he said, scooting into the seat across from her.

            "This better be good," Kiselev said.

            The smile he gave her was small and tired-looking.  "Okay, okay.  It is good."  He sighed, took a long drink, and propped himself up on his elbows.  "It's like this," he began, and his voice was the most serious Kiselev had ever heard it.  "I work for SAVE, the Society Against Viral Experimentation.  We function under several names, but that's the most common one.  We've been around for a while, nipping at Umbrella's heels, but we've never had any good leads until several months ago."  He sprinkled some salt onto the table top and began to move it around idly with his index finger.  "Raccoon City, an Umbrella company town, was wiped out by a widespread outbreak.  A guy from the local police department survived—he's one of about six or seven survivors, we think—and came to us for help.  Leon told us all about what happened:  the virus, the outbreak, everything.  But before we could go to the city to get evidence the government nuked it."

            "So it wasn't just a rumor," Kiselev said softly.

            Moss shook his head.  "The real deal.  And now everything in Raccoon has been destroyed.  We've tried to hunt down some of the other survivors, but for now, Leon Kennedy's the only evidence we have.  That's where I come in."

            "They sent you to get evidence from Urale," Kiselev said, nodding.  

            "Yeah.  Umbrella has to be stopped.  We need hard evidence.  But the good stuff requires a level five access.  Samples of the virus, non-edited memorandums, viral statistics…  And then there's the matter of getting the evidence out of Urale in one piece."  Moss wiped the salt off of the table.  "I wanted to tell you sooner, Kiselev, because I think you're like me.  That you'd agree that what Umbrella's doing is wrong, and that you'd want to stop them, but I had to make sure.  If they had any idea who I am they wouldn't hesitate to kill me."

            "Are you the only one?" Kiselev asked.

            "Dunno.  Probably not.  We all function independently for security reasons.  I wouldn't recognize another member of SAVE in the complex unless they told me who they were."

            Kiselev studied the lines in the table top for a moment, chewing on her lower lip.  "The big question," she said, "is about this outbreak.  What was so terrible about it that the government felt it had to destroy an entire city?"

            Moss drained the rest of his beer.  "Let's just say the virus we're dealing with, this G Virus, is like ebola.  It's contagious through bodily fluids, bites and scratches, and once you've got it you're done for.  Leon says that there was a cure, but we think it got destroyed when Raccoon City was bombed."

            Kiselev leaned back in her seat, processing this information.  So it was all a lie.  Umbrella didn't produce medicines and antibodies, it created viruses.  Viruses that were so terrible and so contagious that a whole city had been destroyed to prevent it from spreading.  At least, according to Moss.

            "How do I know you're telling the truth?" Kiselev asked, and Moss gave her a small, tight-lipped smile.

            "You don't.  I won't have any proof until we get to level five.  If we get to level five.  Unless you turn me in."  He looked at her so intently that she had to glance away.

            "I won't turn you in," she said finally, evenly.  "Something is going on here.  Maybe it's what you say.  Maybe it isn't.  But until I find out what it is, we've both got the same goal.  Level five access."

            Moss let out a loud rush of air.  "Whoo, that's a load off," he said.  "I knew I could count on you, Kiselev.  You're my kinda gal."

            "We're not done yet," Kiselev told him.  "How'd you get that gun into the labs, anyway?"

            "To trigger metal detectors you need metal," Moss said.  "It's made of TG-01.  An experimental alloy.  So're the bullets.  I dunno how SAVE got a hold of it, but short of using syringes and petri dishes it'll be the only weapon we'll have in the labs."  He scooted his empty glass to the center of the table and added, "I'm glad to have it.  I don't trust those UBCS guys one bit."

            Saying that reminded Kiselev of Nicholai.  She looked down into her glass and had a sudden urge to go home and crawl under the covers.

            "Hey, it won't be that bad," Moss said, and she realized that he had misinterpreted her expression.  "This is way more than you bargained for but you can handle it.  Just stick with me.  I won't let anything happen to you."  He stretched, leaning back in his booth.  "What did Nicholai say to you, anyway?  Before we left to go to the infirmary?"

            So he hadn't heard after all.  Kiselev blinked twice, focusing on the glass again.  She'd always told Moss everything up to this point, but now what?  Should she tell him about her meeting with Nicholai?  Should she ask him about Jill Valentine?

            "He told me I should be more careful," she said simply, and Moss nodded.

            "I think the old guy has a crush on you," Moss said.

            Kiselev made a face before she realized it, scrunching up her nose and forehead, and Moss laughed.  "No," she told him, "I don't think that's it."  _If only it were that simple_.  But she got the distinct impression that, whatever Nicholai's intentions were, they were far from pleasant.  What was Nicholai up to?  And more importantly, why did he want her to be a part of it?

            "From now on, we should stick together as much as possible," Moss was saying.  "You watch my back and I'll watch yours.  Not that we weren't before, but now we both know where we stand."

Kiselev snapped back to attention, chewed her lower lip for a moment, and nodded.  "Sounds like a plan."

"And I'd be careful about who you talk to," he added, making a phone motion with his pinky and thumb.  "They've definitely got the phone lines tapped.  E-mail won't be safe either."

Kiselev shrugged and ran her finger along the edge of her glass, making a spiral design in the condensation.  "The only people I call are my parents and I haven't been able to get a hold of them for a week.  Other than that I don't even use the phone."

"You mean they haven't been home?"

"The line's always busy."  Kiselev drained the glass.  "And on that note, I'm going home."

"You know, if you don't feel safe," Moss began, "I have a really comfy couch…"

"I'll be sure to let you know," she told him dryly.

"Be careful," he said.  

The two parted ways.

UMBRELLA CORPORATE, OFFICE 602

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23 1998  

8:55 AM

            Kiselev knocked twice on the door to Nicholai's office.  No response.  She lifted her hand, preparing to knock again, and the door swung open.  She startled and took a hasty step back as Nicholai extended his arm against the door, pulling it fully open.  

            No "come hither" gesture was necessary—Kiselev found her legs walking into the office, taking her body with them, before she had given herself time to consider it as an option.  She sat heavily in the only extra chair and glanced around the room.  The office was Spartan and precise.  Aside from Nicholai's desk and chair, the only other furnishings were a shelf with assorted plaques on it and several guns that had been mounted to the wall.  She slid her report across the desk and Nicholai flipped it open with a finger.  He glanced down, barely, and his gazed swiveled to hers.  

            Kiselev felt a blush rise to her cheeks and she mentally cursed her inability to have a poker face.  Nicholai didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't care.  He flicked the report shut, much as he had opened it, and turned to the side so that she was looking at his profile.

            "Gangrene, Ms. Kiselev?"

            The question surprised her and she didn't respond immediately.  _He'd actually _read_ the report in those few seconds?_  "Ah, yes sir.  Though it seems impossible for it to have become so highly advanced in such a short time span.  I suspect that—"

            "Elements of the injections may have been accelerants for the infection."

            "Yes.  Sir.  Yes sir." 

            "Very good, Ms. Kiselev.  An intelligent guess, albeit somewhat uncreative."  He swiveled the chair back to its original position so that he was looking her in the eyes.  "But what do you really think?"

            Kiselev's blood ran cold.  He knew. He knew that _she_ knew.  And Moss had said that they might be killed if Umbrella found out…  Oh, hell, what had she gotten herself into now?  "I believe my report to be the most plausible explanation, sir," she said, trying to look as earnest as possible.  

            He smiled and Kiselev froze.  Deer in headlights.  She'd always heard about it happening, but she'd never understood how frightening it was to have your mind racing and still be unable to move.  She opened her mouth but no sound came out.  What would she have said even if she could have spoken?

            "Your caution is wise, Ms. Kiselev.  I was fully prepared to terminate you, but I don't believe that will be necessary.  I agree with Mr. Allman—you are indeed a scientist of the caliber that we need."

            "Sir?" she managed.

            "There is no experimental treatment for cancer here, Ms. Kiselev, as I'm sure you've discovered.  Those animals did not contract gangrene and you, Ms. Kiselev, have not been researching anti-viruses.  Much to the contrary."

            "Viral weaponry," she breathed, and he nodded.  

            "Select few within Umbrella truly understand the work we do here.  Most believe, as you did initially, that we are experimenting with anti-viruses.  We are doing the exact opposite.  Just think, Ms. Kiselev, of the science involved.  Our work has had results, but none quite a we'd hoped.  The virus still needs perfecting.  After the… unfortunate… demise of our leading scientist and his wife, we have been unable to find a suitable replacement."  He leaned forward.  "You are free to say no, of course, but think of the possibilities."

            Kiselev's mind was whirling.  Nicholai was taking a big risk in admitting Umbrella's involvement with viral weaponry unless… unless there was no way out.  Unless there was no possible way she could escape if she said no.  Whether she wanted to or not, she had to jump in with both feet—level five access or die.  It wasn't a choice, really.  

            Time to play hardball.  Kiselev gave him what she hoped was a calculating look and said, "I want complete control of the project's direction."

            The look Nicholai gave her was nothing short of barely-contained triumph.  "Within reason, of course.  We will allow you to observe and study Cerberus for the next week before moving on to our other experiments.  Within the month you will be able to begin work with the virus directly."

            Kiselev rose to her feet quickly, praying that her shaky knees didn't give her away.  "Excellent, sir.  I look forward to it."

            "As do I," Nicholai told her, reaching out to shake.

            Kiselev could feel a cold trickle of sweat run down her spine as she left his office.

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 306D

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23 1998  

9:47 AM

            Brewer rose suddenly as Kiselev entered the office.  "Ah, Ms. Kiselev.  The Director said that if—when—you came back from your meeting, you'd be relocating."

            If?  Was Nicholai prepared to kill her on the spot?  Kiselev brushed the thought aside and nodded to him.  "Yes sir."

            "Congratulations," Brewer said softly, and there was a sort of relief in his voice.  "I knew you'd do well here, Ms. Kiselev.  You've got that look in your eye."

            "How's that?" Kiselev asked, sifting through the contents of her inbox. 

            "You've got a scientist's eye," Brewer said.  "You've got to be willin' to marry your work in a place like this."  He took a sip of his coffee and turned back to the contents of his clipboard.  Moss shot Kiselev a look but she pretended to be reading her mail.  

            Brewer's words bothered her, but he was right.  You had to be married to science, to your research, to be involved with something like viral weaponry.  She wondered if William Birkin had been like her.  Had he been afraid?  Did he have a choice?  Had he been married to his work, or had he merely been trying to save his own life?

            Brewer dropped his clipboard onto her desk with a clatter, causing her to jump.  "Ms. Kiselev, they'll be coming for the animals early today.  Make sure you've finished your reports by three."  She nodded and turned back to her mail.    

            "Hey," Moss said, sitting on the edge of her desk once Brewer left the office.  "What're you so melancholy about?"

            Kiselev dumped the memos into the trash.  Should she tell him about Nicholai yet?  She wasn't sure.  "It's nothing, really," she said, running her mouse over to the red and white umbrella mail icon.  "Just—"  She stopped as the first e-mail opened.

            "What?" Moss murmured, looking over at the monitor.

FROM: AUMB@UMBRELLA.LAB3.SUN (MSTRUNLKNG)

TO: MKISELEV@UMBRELLA.LAB3.SUN

SUBJECT: MEMORANDUM

No turning back now.  You are not alone.  

            "Who _is_ this guy?" Moss asked.

            Kiselev stared at the message a moment before deleting it.  The mysterious memos made her nervous, but at the same time she felt strangely relieved.  "Whoever he is, he certainly gets around."

            Moss lowered his voice.  "Do you really think we can trust him?"

            Kiselev shook her head.  "I don't know."  The rest of the messages were the usual level-wide memorandums.  "We'll just have to see, I guess."

            "Brewer gave me a ton of work to do," Moss said, sliding off her desk.  "I better get to it."

            Kiselev just nodded.

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 306D

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23 1998  

3:03 PM

            When Kiselev returned to the office with a cup of coffee two UBCS officers were waiting for her.  Each was fully dressed in their black UBCS uniforms with the exception of their helmets, which they held to the side.  The first, an olive-skinned woman with short brown hair, ignored her completely, but the second, a solidly-built man with a blond crew cut, held his hand out to her.

            "Marc Delarose," he offered.  "This is my partner, Julia Swan."

            "Milla Kiselev."  She switched her mug to the other hand so they could shake.  

            "We're here for the dogs.  Just as an extra precaution.  Would you mind unlocking for us?"

            Kiselev shook her head.  "On the last day of the cycle only the department director can open it."

            "Brewer," Swan said, the displeasure evident in her voice.

            "Great."  Delarose frowned, then rubbed his forehead.  "Are you sure you can't open it?"

            "I'm pretty sure," Kiselev said, taking a sip from her mug before setting it on the desk.  She started to sit in her chair when Brewer briskly walked into the room, pulling on his hazmat gloves, and gave the two UBCSs a withering look.

            "Ms. Kiselev, get your hazmat," Brewer told her.  Then, to the UBCSs, "This is a research matter.  If we need security, we'll request it."

            Swan stretched out her arm and her joints popped loudly.  "Brewer, Brewer.  We're not mall cops, you know.  You can't just order us around."

            "Orders from the top, sir," Delarose said, shooting Swan a warning look.  "We're just trying to avoid unfortunate casualties."

            "I know what you're trying to do," Brewer countered.

            "Sir, don't take this personally—"

            "Personally?  My animals have been tainted over the past few weeks.  This is my research.  This is my _work_, and you don't expect me to take it personally?  Go back and tell Nicholai that nobody is handling these animals but me."

            "I hope you don't think we had anything to do with this," Swan said.

            "Ever since the UBCS has been involved with animal relocation I've been finding evidence of tampering.  What would you think?"  Brewer gave her a sharp look.

            Swan took a step forward, but when Delarose held out his hand she stopped.  "Sir, I've been given direct orders…"

Swan added, "Look, Brewer, if you've got a problem with it, just come with us."  The two officers exchanged a look.  There was something in their gaze, a kind of unspoken message, but Kiselev wasn't sure what it was.

"Fine.  It's better than nothing."  Brewer pulled on his hazmat helmet.  "Ms. Kiselev, sit out on this one.  Monitor the ventilation for me."

Kiselev was surprised by Brewer's hostility—he'd always seemed rather slow to anger—but the UBCS officers didn't seem to notice.  She nodded and sat at Brewer's computer.  After pumping the kennel full of gas she reversed the process, using high-powered fans to suck the fumes out of the small hallway.  She leaned back in her chair and her elbow made contact with the mug.  Kiselev managed to grab the mug as it fell, but she was unable to prevent the splash of coffee that splattered across the keyboard.

"Shit!"  She mopped the majority of the liquid up with her sleeve, setting the coffee mug to one side.  She bent over to grab a Kleenex from the cabinet and two things startled her back into an upright position: the slamming of the security door and the loud, sudden blare of a klaxon.

The metal shutters of the security door completely obscured the kennel, and Kiselev suddenly found herself anxious.  She hit the intercom button with a coffee-stained finger.

"Brewer, what's going on?"

She released the button only to hear a partially muted scream, followed by a muffled, "Everything is fine," by Swan.  The yelling sounded again and Kiselev felt a sinking feeling in her gut.  

"Brewer!" she called back into the intercom.

"Stand by!" Swan barked back, and the connection went dead.

"What the hell?" Kiselev said to herself, louder than she'd intended.  Two could play that game.  She tuned out the blare of the klaxon and tried to concentrate and she accessed the kennel's backup system.  She couldn't reactivate the intercoms—Swan had seen to that—but she could cut off the power to the shutters and reactivate them, causing an override.  She hesitated, her finger hovering over the left mouse button.  There was probably a reason for the shutter activation.  Then she thought of Brewer, and her previous thoughts dwindled away.  She pressed the button, once for deactivation, then a second time for reactivation.

The shutters gave a grunt of protest and began to roll up, clanking loudly as they rose from the floor.  Kiselev headed for the kennel, unsure of what to expect.  The first thing she saw was a hand, and then a face, pressed against the glass.  The face was Brewer's, and he was staring wide-eyed at her, terrified.  

He was screaming, though she couldn't hear the sound of it through the glass.

Kiselev stared at him for a moment, transfixed, and the two UBCS officers grabbed him from behind, dragging him to the ground.  

Kiselev headed for the keypad, preparing to unlock the doors, and started at the sounds of footsteps rushing into the room.  UBCS officers swarmed into the office, five or six of them rushing to the door while two branched off to maneuver her away from the door.

"This way, ma'am," the first said, obscuring her view of the door.  Kiselev dodged to the left, trying to see what was happening, but the second intervened, neatly blocking both her path and her vision between himself, the other officer, and the desk.

"Ma'am, if you'll just come this way."

"What's going on here?" Kiselev demanded, surprising herself with the hardness of her voice.  

"Officer Swan informed us of a potential viral contamination," the first said.  "If you'll just come with us.  You're at risk here."

Kiselev nodded.  What choice did she have?  As she allowed the two officers to propel her forward, she risked a glance over her shoulder.  Through the glass, she could make out Brewer being dragged out of the opposite end of the kennel.  He was screaming and fighting for all he was worth, as if he were fighting for his life.  

Kiselev focused on the floor for a moment, trying to keep her emotions in check.  _Good God,_ she thought.  _What have I gotten into?_

Moss met them outside the office, straining to see past the officers.  "What's going on?"

"Routine quarantine," the second officer said.  "Nothing to worry about.  Report to the level three lobby until you are sent for."

Kiselev and Moss headed for the lobby.  Moss might have asked her a question, she wasn't sure—she was still thinking about the fear in Brewer's eyes as he had pushed his face against the kennel glass, screaming.


	7. Chapter 7

Resident Evil: Biohazard Within 

**Chapter 7**

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 306D

MONDAY, OCTOBER 26 1998  

8:18 AM

            "They're separating us," Moss said, indignant.

            Kiselev didn't even bother to conceal her lack of surprise.  "Brewer's on indefinite quarantine," she said, scanning the memo on her desk.  "And you're taking his place."  She thought back to the terrified look on Brewer's face.  Over a Saturday drink Moss had told her that he believed Brewer was dead, but she hadn't been able to accept it.  Surely it really _was_ quarantine.  Surely Umbrella wouldn't kill their own…  Not like that…

            "More work," Moss was saying.  "But you've got it worse, probably.  Level four.  God knows what kind of paperwork you'll have to fill out."  Brief visions of Viral Weaponry Consent forms flashed through Kislev's mind.  "Do your best," he continued.  "You're saving the world and all that.  Maybe one of these days you'll get to be on Oprah."  He bent his head down, still reading the memo, and Kiselev studied him for a moment, her gaze falling along the curve of his cheekbones down to his neck, watching as his lips moved while he read.  He was playing dumb, of course.  If he hadn't confessed to being an anti-Umbrella agent she never would have even realized it.  The tousled hair, the stubble, the wrinkled clothes—oh, he was good.  But he noticed _everything_, didn't he?  And he had gently nudged her in the right direction, all the while never giving himself away.  How could she have missed it?

            He looked up, saw her watching him, and gave a boyish smile.  "You'll still eat lunch with me, won't you?  Or are you just gonna sit at the cool table with all the level fours now?"

            "If you're buying," Kiselev said, opening her desk and dumping most of the contents into the corrugated cardboard box that had been left in the office last week. 

            He nodded.  "Then it's a date.  Your daily processed food cube is on me."

            "And dessert?"

            He waved his hand dismissively.  "I think we're having freeze-dried ice cream or something.  You know, astronaut food."

            "This isn't NASA," she reminded him.  Had he actually worked there before?  Or was that a lie, too?

            Moss sighed at glanced at the currently empty kennel.  "I hate dogs," he said mournfully.

            Kiselev smiled at him in spite of herself, but even that felt forced.  "Have fun," she said, scooping up the box as she left the room.

UMBRELLA LABS – Hall 4W

MONDAY, OCTOBER 26 1998  

8:46 AM

"The security procedures can be overwhelming at first," Dan told her, "but you'll get used to it."  All of the scientists on level four had a mentor, she had learned, and Phillip Dan was hers.  He was a tall man, nearly as tall as Moss, but his shoulders weren't as broad and he walked with a slight stoop.  His inky-black hair was close cut and his eyes, almost always narrowed behind his thin glasses, were a piercing gray.  

They were walking along one of the circular, nondescript hallways that ringed the lower levels.  These hallways looked even more sterile than the previous ones, if that were possible, and each length of gray metal hallway was lit by rows of soft white lighting on each side.  Kiselev nodded as Dan talked, easily keeping pace with him as he strode down the hall.  "What's the itinerary?"

Two UBCS officers in full uniform appeared around the next bend and she had to mentally force herself not to slow down in spite of the knot that began to form in her stomach.  She had come to associate the UBCS with trouble in her mind.

"All clear?" one of the officers asked Dan, his voice muffled by his mask.  The two officers stopped in front of them, forcing both scientists to come to a sudden halt.

"Yes, everything is fine.  Scientist Kiselev has been newly promoted."  

The same UBCS scrutinized her badge for a moment, then gave a brisk nod.  "Carry on," he said, and the officers both walked around them and out of sight.  

Dan waited until the soldiers were out of earshot before saying, "They're meddlesome, but necessary.  We're stuck with Nicholai for the moment, so we're stuck with the Oobs too."  "Oob," as Kiselev had learned, was the vocalization of "UB" and a nickname for the UBCS officers.  "It's been a while since we had any new recruits to these levels," Dan added, "which is why they stopped you."

So Umbrella was having trouble recruiting for viral weaponry, huh?  Kiselev bit back a smarmy comment and instead asked, "Anything I need to know about them?"

"No.  Not really."  Dan's face darkened for a moment.  "Nicholai seems to think you're William Birkin Jr.  I'm sure the Oobs will take special care of you.  But there's no point in stressing yourself out, so don't.  You'll never be half the scientist Dr. Birkin was."

            Kiselev shot him a caustic look.

            "At any rate, just try not to disappoint us."

            "I'll try," she said, perhaps more sharply than she intended.  The pair stopped in front of the security door to lab 415A and Dan swiped his card.

            "Don't take it so personally," he said, looking over at her out of the corner of his eye.  "I'm just preparing you.  This place is extremely competitive.  Now that Dr. Birkin's gone everyone is scrambling to get a bigger piece."

            "Of what?"

            "The BOW pie, of course," Dan chuckled.  The security door beeped and slid open.  "Familiar with the term?" he asked, stepping inside.  Kiselev followed.  The lab was dimly lit, the only source of light being a soft glow that filtered up from narrow side-lighting pipes that ran along the bottom of the wall.  She could hear the bubbling of fluid and knew that there were tanks here, though the lighting made it difficult to tell if they were empty or not.

            "I've heard it a few times," she said carefully.

            "It stands for Bio-Organic Weapon.  We've all got our pets, but Birkin made art."

            "Such as?"

            "Such as this," Dan said, and he turned on the light.

            Kiselev jerked back with surprise.  The nearest tank contained a man-like being only… it wasn't a man.  Inside the greenish fluid floated a bipedal creature with claws on its muscular limbs.  Most significant, however, seemed to be the creature's apparent lack of skin.  Even the brain was exposed, looking slightly pinkish.  A long, thin tongue floated out of the creature's mouth, and quick inspection revealed the tip to be barbed with a needle of some kind.

            "What is it?" Kiselev asked, her voice barely a whisper.

            "An improved version of a BOW we call 'Crimson Head,'" Dan said.  "Unfortunately, Dr. Birkin never got around to naming it.  The Raccoon City locals took to calling it 'Licker.'"  Dan motioned for her to follow him.  As they walked, the floor and tanks ahead of them lit up one by one.  "Like I said, we've all had our pets."  Dan paused in front of a tank housing an enormous spider with massive tusks and almost quill-like body hair.  "Spiders were my idea.  Not as creative as Dr. Birkin's babies, of course, but effective nonetheless."  He touched the glass gently, almost caressing it.  "They are quite venomous, and unfortunately, quite stupid."

            "How… How did you…"  Kiselev shook her head.  Suddenly, weeks of studying mutated amphibian DNA was starting to make sense.  "What was the mutagen?" she asked.

            Dan didn't answer, and she followed him in silence as they passed tanks.  A shark, several birds, and then…

            "You've already met Cerberus, I believe," Dan said, gesturing to a tank occupied by a Doberman.  The dog looked much like the animals she had taken care of in the kennel only the mange and gangrene—or what looked like it, at any rate—had advanced to a point where the dog appeared to be covered in a slick layer of blood, pus, and muscle tissue.  

            "When we discovered a base virus infection wasn't a problem.  The original virus, the T-Virus, essentially reanimated the host after death, creating what you see in Cerberus, here."

            "A zombie."

            "Yes, something like that.  Occasionally the T-Virus would also cause mutations or size variances, though typically it would simply enhance the reflexes and aggressiveness of the host.  As research progressed Dr. Birkin discovered a new strain of the virus that would continually mutate the host.  He named it the G-Virus and, over the course of a decade, enhanced its capabilities."

            "And Lickers would be a product of that," Kiselev mused.  Having overcome her initial shock, her mind was already putting the pieces of the Umbrella puzzle together.  This T-Virus, G-Virus, whatever, was beyond viral weaponry, even.  A killer virus was one thing, but a virus that reanimated the dead…  Kiselev swallowed.

            "Yes and no," Dan said, oblivious to her discomfort.  "The Licker BOW could feasibly be created with the T-Virus, however, the T-Virus only mutates the host with the appropriate stimuli—the host would need to be pampered, in a manner of speaking.  The G-Virus creates BOWs like the Licker with much less effort, though the course of the mutations are largely out of our control."  They were at the end of the lab now and he paused to swipe his card again.

"The Licker wasn't like the other ones here," Kiselev continued.  "It was the only bipedal.  So that means it was mutated from… a human?"  _Please let it be a monkey,_ she thought as the security door slid open, and to her horror Dan gave her a confirmatory smile.

"Fascinating, isn't it?"

Kiselev nodded, following him into the next room, but she was starting to feel sick.  She thought back to the memo about subjects committing suicide on Sheena Island.  Dan said something she didn't hear, and when she looked over at him his eyes were shining like a child's on Christmas morning.  "And this isn't even the half of it.  Dr. Birkin's most impressive work is housed in level five.  The only reason the Licker is here is because, well, it was actually a mistake."  He shrugged, as if to say, "These things happen!" and Kiselev felt a cold bead of sweat run down her back.

            This couldn't be real.

            But here they were, and beyond that door lay a host of monsters to prove it.

            "This is the secondary research archive," Dan told her, gesturing to the files and computers that lined the walls.  "This is where all the experiment data is kept.  You'll want to read up on all the recent BOW activity and you'll want to study the information we have on the viruses.  After you get a feel for the project, let me know and we'll discuss the directions you want to take.  Within reason, of course.  Scientist Zelliger wanted to work on a equine hybrid."  He rolled his eyes, as if this was the most ludicrous thing he'd ever heard.  "Some ideas are better than others.  Your office is in 409C.  Do you know the way?"

            Kiselev nodded, her gaze traveling along the filing cabinets.

            "Here on level four we make our own hours," Dan said, fishing his card out of his pocket.  "But I think you'll find yourself staying here more and more.  Contact the level supervisor or myself if you need anything."  He glanced at his watch before leaving Kiselev to stand alone in the center of the room as she surveyed the rows and rows of file cabinets before her.

UMBRELLA LABS – Lab 415A, Secondary Research Archive

MONDAY, OCTOBER 26 1998  

10:03 PM

            Kiselev rubbed her eyes and leaned back in her chair for a moment, stretching her back.  Inside of the filing cabinets had been a wealth of information, and after being starved for solid leads for so long she eagerly gobbled it up.  Data analysis of the T-Virus and the G-Virus, tactical BOW data, charts, reports, memos.  It was all here.  She'd forgotten to eat lunch, and later, forgotten dinner.  

            Umbrella used the viruses to make monsters.  Living biological weapons.  Like any good viruses, the T and G-Viruses were contagious, but only through blood transference.  The dormancy of the virus was erratic—sometimes it would take hold of the host within hours, sometimes within days or even a week.  The current experiments with the Cerberus on level 3 were efforts to control the length of dormancy according to specific viral modifications.  Several memos indicated that Umbrella was most interested in prolonging the dormancy period to a week or more, the intended outcome being "a more diverse spreading of the virus to the core population while lessening the ties to Umbrella facilities and/or agents."

            In addition to creating monsters, Umbrella had been letting them loose.  When a T-Virus outbreak occurred in Raccoon City, Umbrella scientists saw their opportunity to track BOW data.  They had, in essence, stood by and allowed the city to be overrun with zombies and monsters.  Then, as if that weren't enough, Umbrella had authorized the release of a class 5 BOW called code T-002.  Tyrant.  She had searched in vain to find more information on the Tyrant, but the files were blocked.  Level 5 access only.  

            Kiselev absently took a sip of her chilled coffee.  It didn't seem real to her yet.  The reports read like bad horror movie fodder and the photos and charts seemed straight out of a B-movie prop box.  But here it was.  Proof, to some extent.

            Unfortunately, it seemed that as she uncovered more answers she also found more questions.  There were at least four viruses, two extras in addition to the T and G-Viruses that had been so well documented.  The first, a variation of the T-Virus, was labeled only by a serial number and was mentioned only briefly several pages of documentation that she could not read because they appeared to be in French.  The second was simply called "NE-T," and any attempts to access information at the computer workstation were denied.

            Kiselev let out a long breath of air and sat the empty Styrofoam cup on the edge of the desk.  If only Moss could see this.  He would shit himself.  She turned her neck to the right, then the left, and startled with a soft "oh!" when she saw that Dan was standing in the far doorway watching her.  She hadn't heard him enter.

            "Quite the busy little bee," he said, walking over.  "You've covered a lot of ground, it seems.  Impressive initiative."

            "It's fascinating," she told him honestly, closing the folder she had been reading.

            "Don't burn yourself out."  He was hard to read, but Kiselev accepted his tone at face value as the friendly advice of a co-worker and mentor.  

She nodded and stood up, pushing her chair back into place.  "You're right.  I should get some sleep."

            "Any questions so far?"  

            "Well, I was wondering about this, uh…"  Kiselev flipped the folder back open, scanning until she found the right line.  "This NE-T Virus.  I'm having trouble finding information..."  She turned the folder towards him and he took it from her, shutting it abruptly.

            "That's a level five restriction, I'm afraid.  Think of it as something to work towards.  Anything else?"

            Kiselev shook her head.  "No.  Nothing."  Again he was giving her an indecipherable look, but she shrugged it off.  She grabbed her empty cup and walked past him, shutting two of the open file cabinets on her way out.

            "Good night, Scientist Kiselev," Dan called after her.

            She hesitated at the door.  "Good night," she responded.  He gave her a hollow smile and, without another word, she left.

UMBRELLA LABS – Front Plaza

MONDAY, OCTOBER 26 1998  

10:27 PM

Kiselev shrugged into her jacket as she walked down the plaza leading to the Umbrella building.  She exchanged a wave with the security guard at the first tower and stuffed her hands into her pockets.  The weather was considerably chilly this time of year and her breath was visible in the October night air.  She hesitated at the top of the stairs, pausing to adjust her left shoe, and when she stood she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder.  She jerked away with a shriek and lunged with her right hand outstretched.  She barely missed slugging Moss in the face.

"God!  It's just me!"  He raised his arm defensively but held his ground.

Kiselev stumbled back a step and let out an embarrassed sigh.  She could feel her face turning red.  "What's the big idea, sneaking up on people like that?"

"Christ, I wasn't trying to scare you.  I missed you at lunch so I thought I'd hang around until you got off.  I didn't know you'd be so damn jumpy."  Kiselev turned and started walking towards her apartment.  His footsteps echoed behind her as he double-stepped to catch up.  "You're not mad are you?" he asked tentatively.

            "No, it's just—Good God, Moss.  Jumpy isn't the word I'd use."

            "What's wrong?" he asked immediately.  "What is it?"

She glanced around at the trees that lined the walk.  She'd never seen any cameras before, but that didn't mean there weren't any.  She shook her head.

"Look, let's swing by my place," he whispered.  He leaned over to do this, his shoulder brushing against her back, and she found herself not minding.  "I comb my apartment every night.  It's clean."

She nodded.  They walked in silence for a moment, save for the occasional crunching of leaves underfoot, until Moss wriggled his arm into the crook of her own and started bellowing the lyrics to "Brown-Eyed Girl" at the top of his lungs.  The action was so sudden and spontaneous that it functioned as a siphon for all of her newfound stress.  She found herself giggling at first, as the occasional passerby would give them an odd look, and later laughing as he stumbled over a few lines and then, to punctuate that literally, tripped over a loose washer in the sidewalk.

            The outside of Moss' apartment was much like her own, as it was housed in a stucco building with wooden doors and a red tile roof.  The inside was cluttered, though not terribly so.  Moss' propensity for collecting knickknacks was not restricted to work; along his desk sat two army men, a plastic penguin, and a small, purple stuffed cat.

            "I like cats," he explained, "but I'm allergic."

            Kiselev sat on the worn blue couch and studied the Night of the Living Dead posters on the wall while Moss went to the kitchen and returned—to her surprise—with a Red Snapper for her and something dark for himself.

            "You know me well," she mused, taking the drink as he sat next to her and thinking that the posters were eerily appropriate.

He started to reply when several loud thumps sounded from above.  He rolled his eyes.  "That guy…" he began, and went off on a diatribe about his annoying upstairs neighbor who was, as he perceived it, a mongoloid.

By the time he winded down Kiselev had finished her drink and she said, "There are four," still clasping the cool glass in her hand.  She began to turn it counter-clockwise.

            "Four what?"

            "Four viruses."

            The change in Moss' demeanor was subtle but profound.  He straightened up a little, tilting his head towards her, his usual slight, crooked smile smoothing into something undecipherable and foreign.  "We thought the T-Virus and the G-Virus were the only ones," he said softly, almost distantly.

            "The third I know nothing about.  I can't read the documentation.  But the fourth is called the NE-T Virus."

            "What does it do?" he asked, staring at her intently.  Her heart gave a nervous flutter though she wasn't sure why.

            "I don't know.  Dan says it has a level five restriction."

            "Dan?" Moss blinked out of his seriousness, his eyebrow raising in a manner that was more familiar.

            "Phillip Dan.  My mentor."

            Moss looked into his drink thoughtfully.  "Do you think he'll cause any trouble?"

            She shook her head.  "He doesn't seem too bad.  A little arrogant.  Maybe a bit of a shut-in."  She hesitated, still turning the empty glass over in her hands.  "Daniel?"

            He looked up at her.

            "Have you seen… what they look like?"

            "The BOWs?" he asked, and she nodded.  "I've seen a few of them."  He drained his own drink and set the empty glass on the coffee table.  "Are you afraid?"

            "I'm not sure how I feel," she admitted, setting down her own glass.  "I think my brain is in shock.  It's a lot of information to process at once."  She glanced at her watch.  "It's getting late and I'll need to be back early.  I better go."

            "You're not gonna stand me up at lunch tomorrow, are you?"  Moss gave her an exaggerated pouty-face and she laughed.  

            "Okay, okay.  I'll eat lunch with you."  She stood and made her way to the door, opening it before he could open it for her.  "See you tomorrow."

            "Hey.  Milla."  He touched her hand as it rested on the doorknob.  "If you ever feel threatened, use this."  He extended his other hand towards her.  In his palm a small metal capsule gleamed.  "I'll come for you.  Just put it on your keys or something.  Think of it as your own personal Moss beeper."

            She took it from him and slipped it into her pocket.  

            "I could walk you home," he began, but the shaking of her head silenced him.  

            "I'll be fine.  I just need to think."  She gave him a forced smile. "Bye," she said, and slipped out the door into the chilly Urale night.


	8. Chapter 8

Resident Evil: Biohazard Within Chapter 8 

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 409C

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29 1998  

1:43 PM

            Kiselev hummed to herself as she loaded the newest batch of T-Virus infection data.  The week had progressed quickly and smoothly, and for that she felt guilty.  A part of her still felt tense and unsure, wary of what lurked in level five and unhappy to process data and research that she knew had an ultimately evil purpose.  The scientist in her, however, was thrilled—elated, even—at each new discovery, at every new piece of the puzzle.  That part of her yearned to reach level five in order to uncover more secrets and, more importantly, the amazing technology and research behind the whole project.

            It was now that she felt the strongest kinship with Birkin, though she'd never met him or even known his name before coming to this facility.  He, too, had advanced the ranks quickly, and somehow, in a corporation that was proving to be more dog-eat-dog with each passing day, he'd managed to stay on top for years as a revered and valued scientist.

            She might have spent time wondering what he was like if she'd _had_ the time.  But Dan kept her busy and on her toes, and between data analysis and incorporating her own ideas into the project her hands were full.              She was less interested in working directly with the monsters (or "babies," and Dan called them) and more interested in working with the viruses on a molecular level.  

"Dr. Birkin had similar interests," Dan told her once, and she found his tone of voice difficult to peg.  She had no doubt, however, that her own motivations were vastly different that Birkin's had been.  She knew that if she came to understand the nature of the viruses she might be able to sabotage the project, or better, destroy the viruses completely.  

            Her determination drove her forward and as a result she had adapted quickly to level four's demanding and strenuous work schedule.  The level four and five scientists weren't the sort of people that made or wanted friends, but they seemed to recognize her strengths, as she theirs.  In the upper levels, it was all about respect.

            Having finished her current report, she hit the print button and leaned back in her chair, relaxing.  She'd eaten lunch around noon and was feeling a little drowsy—a catnap would be nice.  She was considering taking a snooze on the couch inside her spacious office when there was a soft knock at her door.  She swiveled in her chair as Dan entered, the look on his face somber.

            "Just in time," she said.  "I finished off the last of the Neptune data."

            "Missed you at lunch," he said lightly.

            Kiselev raised her eyebrows slightly and pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.  She hadn't been aware he was expecting her.  "I usually eat in the main cafeteria."

            "With?"

            "My former lab partner," she said, plucking the freshly printed report from the printer tray.

            "There's no romantic involvement, I trust," he said, leaving his post at the door to walk towards her, and Kiselev frowned at him.

            "Not that it's any of your business, but no.  He's my friend."  She stood and handed the stack of papers to him, halting his progress towards her.

            Dan gave a dry, humorless laugh and took the report.  "Don't get offended, Scientist Kiselev.  I was merely concerned for your work performance.  It would be a shame if distractions let your mind go to waste.  The upper level scientists rarely fraternize with those in lower ranks."

            "Thank you for your concern, Phillip.  I'll keep that in mind."  She sat and turned back to her monitor.  "I was going to go ahead and start on the Hunter degeneration data.  There seems to be a problem with molecular breakdown over time."  She felt him standing behind her, his arm brushing against her shoulder, and she resisted the urge to shake him away.  "Or did you want me to wait?"

            He put his hand on her shoulder, and again, she forced herself not to brush him off.  "Nicholai has encouraged us to move forward on the Hunter project.  I leave it in your hands."

            Kiselev leaned forward to loosen his grip—not too obviously, she hoped—and asked, "When will I get to see a Hunter, anyway?  It'd be nice to know what I'm working with."

            "We'll see what happens.  I've been giving you the highest recommendation."  She could tell from his reflection in the monitor that he had turned to leave, and she straightened up a bit.

            "Thank you," she called to him, turning slightly.

            He was already gone.

URALE CITY PARK – TRACK 2

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31 1998  

3:15 PM

            Kiselev leaned against the smooth, modern-looking dome of the water fountain and took several large gulps of the icy-cold water that began running when she nudged the pressure-sensitive footpad.  Though she usually went running alone, she'd talked Moss into coming for this one, and upon arrival had started laps without him.  It was as chilly as ever, but after eight laps she had worked up a sweat, not to mention her blood pressure, and no jacket was necessary—only a "Ginny's Bar" tank top that she had won at a drawing and a loose-fitting pair of navy Nike jogging pants with a white vertical stripe.

            She ran the back of her arm against her forehead and surveyed the park again.  She'd told him track two, hadn't she?  She couldn't remember.  She scanned a row of shade trees near the far bleachers and spotted him standing just beyond them, talking to someone.

            Well, no wonder she hadn't seen him.  He was practically hiding in the bushes.  She took another long drink of water and started towards him.  As she approached she could make out his companion—a well-built man with short blond hair and mirrored sunglasses.  They seemed to be arguing, and by the time she reached where Moss was standing the man had left.

            "It's about time you showed up," she panted, and Moss gave her an apologetic shrug.

            "Sorry, lost track of the time.  But you're doin' a great job without me…"

            "Yeah, yeah.  Who was that?  Friend of yours?"

            Moss blinked.  "Who…?  Oh, I don't know.  Some guy.  I thought I knew him, but…"

            "No?"

            "Nah.  Wanna race?  Ready, set, go!"  He took off at a quick sprint, leaving her to stumble to catch up.  She'd expected him to lose wind quickly—he'd never mentioned running or jogging before, and he seemed reluctant to partake in any exercise of any kind, but he held his own, and she found herself admiring his endurance.

            "Where did _that_ come from?" she panted when they took a quick water break.

            "I was a sporty kid.  Track, football, soccer, wrestling.  The knack stays with you."  He gave her a mischievous smile.  "I could teach you how to wrestle if you want."

            Kiselev shook her head, stretching in preparation her two lap cool-down walk.  "That's okay."

            "How about we go Trick-or-treating instead?"

            Kiselev looked at him dumbly for a moment, then groaned.  "Oh, shit.  Today's Halloween."

            "Oh, come on.  It's not that bad.  Baby sacrifice is mostly a west coast thing."

            "No, it's just Susan Meng is having a party and I told her I'd go."

            "Susan Meng?"

            "One of the fives."

            "The level fives are having a Halloween party?" he asked, feigning amazement.  "I didn't even know those guys had the right muscles to smile, let alone have fun."

            "Har."  She elbowed him lightly and they started walking.  "It's not a costume party or anything campy like that.  It's actually pretty serious.  Black tie, the whole shebang.  Dan said it's a good place to meet some of the level fives outside of work."

            "And let me guess.  He wanted to go with you?"

            "Well, he didn't come out and say it, but he hinted around—"

            "You told him you already had a date, didn't you?"

            Kiselev gave him a curious look.  "No."

            "Well, you should have.  Because first, he's a creep and you don't want to go with him.  Secondly, this might be a great chance to find out about you-know-what, and third, I can watch your back."  The you-know-what, also known as the NE-T Virus, had been on the forefront of Moss' mind lately.

            "I wouldn't want to deprive you of trick-or-treating," she teased, and he crossed his arms and planted a solemn expression on his face.

            "It is my sacred duty," he said.  "And besides, free food."  He paused for a moment, then added, "It _is_ free, right?"

            "Well, she did mention something about all the lowers having to pay an admission fee."

            "Oh, that's rich."

            Kiselev grinned at him.  "I'd ask you to pick me up, but you don't have a car," she continued, amused.

            "When is it?"

            "Eight."

            "Come over at seven."  He patted her on the arm and deviated from the track.

            "Why?  Where are you going?"

            "I've got to get some stuff ready," he told her.  "Don't be late!"

            Kiselev shrugged and gave him a half-wave as he disappeared past the stadiums.  Moss was a strange man sometimes.

EVERGREEN APARTMENTS - #2B

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31 1998  

7:03 PM           

            When Kiselev knocked on the door, and Moss answered, the first thing he said was, "You're three minutes late."  Then: "I didn't know you had a dress like that," followed by a hasty, "I was gonna wear one just like it!  God, that would have been so embarrassing!"

            Kiselev giggled at the thought of Moss in a long, black evening gown with spaghetti straps.  "My mother talked me into packing it.  I guess I owe her a thank you."

            "Have you talked to her lately?"

            Kiselev shook her head.  "No.  It's been a while."  They'd come to the conclusion that Umbrella had blocked all of the outgoing calls somehow—every time she attempted to call her mother the phone simply rang without ever being answered, regardless of the time of day.

            Moss motioned her over to the couch and she nodded in approval at his dress.  Though the jacket was on a chair, the tie was on the table and his sleeves were rolled up, it was undeniably a well-fitting tux.  In addition, he'd combed his hair and shaved.  She couldn't recall ever seeing him without stubble before.  He cleaned up nice, actually.  Very nice.  "You just keep tuxedos lying around?" she asked.

            "Don't be silly.  I rented it."

            "It fits you really well," she said.

He turned and poked out his rear.  "Does it make my butt look big?"

She swatted him playfully and sat on the couch.  "What is all this about?"  The table was littered with wires and pieces of metal, among other things, and it looked like he had taken apart half of the machines in his apartment and littered the table with their parts.

"This," he said triumphantly, holding up a small wire with a knob at the end, "is gonna let us hear each other.  It's a little microphone.  I've already got mine in my collar—" he pulled down the edge to show her, "—but you'll have to put yours, uh…"  He gestured vaguely towards her chest and fumbled with the end, nearly dropping it.  "You can put yours in.  Somewhere."  He handed it to her and showed her a small, pill-shaped piece of metal.  "This is the receiver.  Goes in the ear.  Don't worry, it's nearly impossible to see, and even then you can say it's a hearing aid or something."

She took it from him and examined it.  "I feel like this thing's gonna get lost in my head," she told him.

"Here, let me do it."  He took it from her and sat next to her on the couch.

            "You don't think they're going to sit around talking about classified projects, do you?" she asked.

            "Not to me they won't.  To you… maybe.  But besides that, these'll let us hear what people aren't saying to us.  The range is great."

            "Won't people around us hear it, too?"

            "There's a good chance they might.  You'll only want to turn it on when there isn't anyone standing right next to you or when there's a lot of noise in the room.  Hold still."  He leaned over and she averted her eyes and he gently turned her head.  His touch was feather light—the cold metal of the receiver inside her ear was the only indication that they'd had any physical contact.

            "There you go," he said.  This was punctuated by a soft buzzing sound, and he reached into his pocket.  "'Scuse me."  She saw him withdraw a slim black cell phone from his pocket as he left the room.  Idly, Kiselev turned her attention to the coffee table.  Though her initial glance had led her to label much of the table's contents as "junk," further inspection revealed that some of the items were actually quite sophisticated.  There were a couple of sleek devices that looked decidedly James-Bondish, and she assumed that Moss had been imparted these by his organization.  She was examining a boxy LCD that seemed to be a navigation tool when Moss' voice carried to her from the other room.

            "…Hunk?  Have they lost their fucking minds?  He's psychotic."

            Kiselev had never heard anger in his voice before, not really, and she found herself straining to hear.  Unfortunately, Moss lowered his voice again, and she could only make out a few snippets of the conversation.

            "…Fine…"  He said something else, and his voice dropped again.  When he returned she had lost interest in the navigation tool and was trying to figure out the gimmick behind an otherwise ordinary-looking wristwatch.  

            "I called a ride," he said, running his fingers through his hair.  "They were out of limos, but I told them that I'd let it go this one time."  He picked up his tie from the back of a chair, almost absently, and began putting it around his neck.  "I guess we'll see what my spy toys are really worth."

            "Company gifts?" she asked, and he nodded.

            "Something like that."

            His tie was going hopelessly nowhere, so she stood and held a hand out expectantly.  "Give it to me," she told him sternly, and he gave her a sheepish grin.

            "I loosened it up for you."

            She gave him a small smile and tied it for him, straightening his collar in the process.  Moss was putting a lot more stock in this gathering than she was.  Would surveillance equipment _really _be necessary?  She doubted it, but better safe than sorry.  

            Still, it was just a little work party, right?  She sat by the window as Moss shrugged into his jacket and began to box up the contents of the table.

MENG RESIDENCE

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31 1998  

8:12 PM           

            Kiselev found that "overwhelming" was probably the best way to describe Susan Meng's little get-together.  The Meng household was enormous, a luxurious manor on the east side of town with three floors that were teaming with light and music.  When the butler answered the door and held out his hand, Kiselev was uncertain.  Then Moss whispered into her ear to give the man her coat and she slid out of it quickly, feeling embarrassed.  Soft piano music wafted through the hall—the Mengs, it seemed, had hired a professional pianist for the occasion.

Susan Meng breezed by and caught Kiselev by the elbow.  "So glad to see you, Milla."

Kiselev introduced Moss, who shook hands with Susan before offering his arm to Kiselev, who gratefully accepted it.

"You can eat whenever you like, of course," Susan continued, "but the uppers are having dinner at nine.  Phillip seemed very interested in having you join us."

By uppers she meant the level five scientists, of course.  Kiselev thanked her and allowed Moss to steer her towards the large ballroom that was located directly off the foyer.

"This is like a Who's Who of viral weaponry," Moss muttered under his breath, side-stepping to avoid a dancing couple.  Kiselev urged him towards the far floor-to-ceiling picture window so that they could survey the room without looking as conspicuous among the sea of moving couples.

"Most of the people here are level fours, I think," she whispered.  "I don't know very many people in the labs, because we're all separated, but I do know that there are only seven level fives, including the Mengs and Dan."

"Can you tell which are which?"

She shook her head.  "Just Susan and Dan.  I haven't even met Susan's husband yet."

Moss started to say something, but was interrupted by a loud tittering of female voices.

"My, my, Kiselev!  Are you going to introduce your friend?"

The owner of the voice was a level four that Kiselev _did_ recognize—Rachel Wisen, a tall blonde in a powder blue evening gown who specialized in Hunter DNA analysis—accompanied by two other women that she hadn't seen before, each wearing a red and black gown, respectively.

"This is Daniel Moss.  Daniel, this is Rachel Wisen."

"Call me Rachel."  Wisen flashed him a very white smile.  "You must be the one Kiselev sneaks off to have lunch with."  She gave Moss a quick, but noticeable, once-over and added, "I can't say I blame her."

Kiselev could feel a slight flush creep up her cheeks (embarrassment on Moss' behalf, she supposed) but he took it all in stride and returned Wisen's smile.  "Yes, I'm the one with that privilege."

"Kiselev, you don't mind if I steal him for a few moments, do you?"

Kiselev shook her head dumbly.  "No… No, not at all."

"Thanks for being a good sport.  Don't mind us.  Mingle."  

Moss squeezed her arm and took Wisen's instead, turning when Wisen looked away to give Kiselev a shrug and a small eye-roll.  She fought to keep a grin in check as she turned back to the window.  She'd never been good at making small talk with strangers, let alone trying to dance with them.  She was content to survey the outside garden and fountain from her spacious vantage point.  Perhaps there would be time later to take a brisk walk and look at the flora more closely.  The fountain in particular attracted her.  It was an enormous, sculpted clamshell with a white marble pearl in the center.  She leaned forward a bit to distinguish the details of the outside from the light reflections on the window and noticed a figure standing behind her.  She turned abruptly, only to come nose-to-shoulder with Phillip Dan.

"I hope I didn't disturb you," he said.  "I'm glad you could make it.  I'm sure your friend won't mind if I have a dance?"

Kiselev glanced over at Moss, who was still occupied by the three women, all of whom appeared to be laughing at something he had said.  "I'm sure he won't mind," she said, giving him a small smile and her hand.  She allowed him to lead her to a spot on the side of the dance floor that was, in comparison to the bustle of the center of the floor, somewhat private.  The current song was a slow one, which was good because she didn't know how to dance.  She placed her hand on his shoulder somewhat awkwardly and concentrated on not stepping on his feet.

They danced in silence for a few minutes—swayed, really, Kiselev thought—and she was so lost in concentration that when he first said, "I've shown Scientist Meng some of your proposals," she didn't hear it at first.

Kiselev blinked at him and narrowly missed stepping on his left foot.  "Which one?" she asked.  

"Both.  They see potential."

She wasn't sure what to say.  "Thank you."

"I kept close contact with Dr. Birkin for many years up until his… accident," Dan continued, almost inattentively.  "There is a project of his that I feel may be suited for your strengths.  I cannot disclose the specifics until a later date, of course…"  His grip on her hand tightened and his gaze became distant.

"You miss him?" she asked tentatively.

Dan was silent for a moment, then: "He was my mentor.  My inspiration.  They never appreciated his genius.  Not like I did."  His voice became bitter.  "And _her_… Annette was never good enough for him.  She didn't understand him like I did.  We're above those sorts of relations, Scientist Kiselev.  We're beyond that.  We find attraction in the mind, in the science."  He never made eye contact with her, not once, and Kiselev studied his face intently as he talked.  "She was never good enough."  Dan's lip curled slightly.  "I should have been…"  He shook his head.

Kiselev found herself staring at him.  "Phillip?" she asked quietly.  She knew that Birkin's wife had been a scientist named Annette.  Could it be that Dan had actually been in _love_ with Birkin?

"It's the past," he said abruptly.  His grip relaxed, but his gaze remained distant, fixed on an undetermined, invisible point in the horizon.

Kiselev felt at a loss so she said nothing.  It wasn't like him to be so open, and in a way, it troubled her.  

Suddenly, Wisen's voice blared, "Oh, come on.  Surely Kiselev tells you all her juicy little secrets," into her ear, and Kiselev startled, inadvertently pressing close to Dan—much closer than she would have liked.  Dan snapped out of his trance and glanced down at her, surprised.  She stepped away from him quickly as Moss' reply, "No, honestly, she tells me nothing.  She says it would bore me to tears," sounded in her ear.

"Philip, I'm sorry," she said, taking another quick step back and wondering if he had heard.  "I'll be back.  I—I just remembered something," she finished lamely.  She turned before he could respond and headed towards the ballroom door, quickly scanning the room.  No Moss in sight.  No Wisen and friends either.  She headed into the hallway and nearly ran headlong into the butler.

"I'm sorry, have you seen my, uh, date?"

"I believe he was in the pool room, miss," the butler said, amused, but too professional to show it.  "That way, miss."  She followed his pointed finger to a room at the far end of the hall only to find Moss cornered at the bar by the three women.

Moss noticed her immediately and reached into his pocket.  The noise in her ear faded with a click.  She slowed down as she approached them, giving the group a friendly smile when she reached the bar.  "Having fun?"

"Absolutely," Wisen purred, but there was something unpleasant behind her smile.  

"Ah, here, Milla, have a drink," Moss said, and he put a glass into her hand.  "We were just talking about—"

"Trivial work details," one of the women finished for him.

"Shameful, I know," Wisen added.  "We were curious, but this isn't a time for work chat, what with this being a party and all.  I trust you're having a good time, Scientist Kiselev?"

"Loads," Kiselev said, taking a sip of her drink.

"Well, I won't hog any more of your date's time.  Have a nice evening, both of you."  The women exchanged formalities with Moss and left.  Kiselev sat next to him, sipping her drink.

"They deliberately separated us," Moss told her in a low voice.  "That wasn't curiosity.  That was an interrogation.  Who approached you when I left?"

"Dan."

He nodded.  "I don't trust that guy."

Susan Meng poked her head into the room, as she had a habit of doing, and waved.  "Dinner in five minutes!" she reminded, winking at them.

"Persistent, aren't they?" he mused.

"Dan said there hadn't been a level four promotion in a long time.  I guess they're curious."

"That doesn't bother you?"

Kiselev shrugged.  "They're just checking out the new gal.  I'd probably do the same thing, if I were them."

Moss brought the glass to his lips.  "In the ballroom they were all watching you," he said, taking a drink.  "In this sort of business, popularity is not what you want."

MENG RESIDENCE

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31 1998  

9:19 PM

            Dinner went without a hitch.  Courtesy of Dan's introductions, Kiselev could fit each of the seven unfamiliar faces around the table with a name.  To her left was Dan, of course.  Then Damion Gray, an older, absentminded-looking man who had a tendency to stare off into space at nothing.  Next to him was Janice Zelliger, a spindly-looking woman with stringy brown hair that talked a bit too much, too loudly.  Next to her was James Cartier and his fiancé, Maria—James was the level five equipment specialist and Maria who, interestingly enough, ran an auto repair shop in lower Urale.  Then there were the Mengs: Susan, who she'd already met, and Ken, a perpetually friendly man who really, really enjoyed imbibing alcohol.  Next came Jack Rosen, a quiet, somber blond who strayed little beyond one-word responses and retorts—he'd spoken more to Moss than anyone, and even those bits of conversation had been terse.

            Work-related discussion was nonexistent.  Instead the conversation largely centered around current events, the state of the Meng household, and whether or not the Mayor of Urale was an idiot.  Zelliger spent a good deal of the conversation trying to convince the Mengs to build a stable beyond their garden until Dan interrupted her, steering the conversation to a recent revitalization project that would take place within the upcoming month.

            Moss excused himself, and after a few minutes his voice whispered, "Cover for me," through her earpiece.  The conversation ran smoothly for a bit longer as the fives continued to chit-chat amiably amongst themselves, and it was when Zellinger had gotten back on the stable topic and was saying, "Equine studies are vastly underrated," when Dan cleared his throat.

            "We seem to have lost Researcher Moss," he said, and Kiselev put down her fork.

            "I'll make sure he's okay," she murmured, aware of Dan's eyes following her as she walked out of the dining room.  "Where are you?" she hissed to her chest when she was down the hall.  She turned the corner at the end and, again, nearly bumped into the butler.

            "Miss?  Can I help you?"

            Kiselev knew her face was turning pink.  Moss' voice said, "First floor bathroom," into her ear and she gave the man an innocent smile.  "Where's the lady's room?"

            "Down that hall, Miss.  Second door on your right."

            She thanked him and followed his directions, briskly walking down the hall and letting herself into the appropriate door which, incidentally, had a brass cherub on it.  She found Moss sitting on the counter next to the sink, his tie loosened, scrutinizing a small metal object.

            "What are you doing?" she asked.  "They're starting to wonder if you're alright."

            "Your friend Wisen gave me this," he said, holding it up so she could see it. It was a small gray object approximately the size of a cufflink.  "Slipped it in my pocket.  It's a tracking device.  I assumed she was merely a jealous coworker, but there seems to be more going on here than I thought."

            Kiselev just looked at him.

            "Anyway, I left it here in the bathroom when I snooped around in the Mengs' home office.  There's nothing but tax forms and cable bills.  There isn't even so much as a pad of Umbrella stationary in this house."

            "Moss, are you out of your mind?  What if they caught you?"

            He blinked at her, slowly, as if he hadn't considered that.  "Uh… I couldn't find the bathroom?"

            "So you decided to look for it in their personal files.  Good one."

            "I'm innocent-looking.  Lovable, even.  They would have bought it."  He slid the metal device back into his pocket.  "But isn't it strange how the fives haven't mentioned work once?  I mean, when that's the one thing that everyone at the table has in common, it should come up at least once.  Not classified information or anything, but I expected to at least get some opinions on the new cafeteria food."

            "You missed the escargot and some kind of cold soup."

            He attempted to fix his tie and, after two failed attempts, let her do it.  "If they ask, I've got some sort of stomach thing.  I left the tracking device in here while I was snooping; as far as they know, I've been here the whole time.  Whoever 'they' is."

            "A stomach thing?  But what about dessert?"

            He hesitated.  "…There's always room for dessert."  He opened the door and they both stepped out into the hallway.

            "You're going to get fat, Moss.  Fat."

            "Quiet, you," he said, nudging her, the vestiges of a grin playing across his lips.  "That's my line.  Besides, what if—"  The sound of shattering glass interrupted him.  The pair exchanged a look and headed towards the center of the house, where the sound had originated.  There was a scream, followed by more glass breaking, and they increased their pace, reaching the door to the ballroom in a matter of seconds.

            Moss walked directly into the room without hesitation, but Kiselev momentarily paused to take a mental snapshot of the situation.

            The large floor-to-ceiling picture window had been shattered and broken glass was strewn across the wooden floor nearly to the center of the room.  In the midst of the shards stood four punks, all clad in varying degrees of leather and spikes and all brandishing blunt objects.  The two punks standing on the far right and left were turned to the side enough that Kiselev could make out markings on the backs of their jackets—the top said, "Wild Cards," and below that was a white symbol.  The male on the far left had a paint-flaked "A"; the female to the far right had a more intricately painted crown symbol.  

            Of the two males in the center, the one on the left was grinning ear-to-ear and had an ironclad grip on the arm of a woman in a blue evening gown.  He had an eye patch.  The male to the right stepped forward, glass crunching under his feet.  He clapped the end of his aluminum baseball bat against the palm of his hand and Kiselev knew instinctively that he was the leader.  He was, by far, the most intimidating-looking.  He had a thick chain that ran from his mouth to his left ear and his head, save for spiked hair along the top, was shaved.

            "Okay, you mother fuckers.  Listen up.  One of ours is missing, and I _know_ you Umbrella sons of bitches are responsible.  So start talking, or we're gonna start busting some heads, starting with this bitch right here."  He jerked his head towards the woman in the blue gown and she let out a little whimper.

            "Yeah, yeah, you tell 'em, Suicide," the eye patch-wearing punk urged.  He winked at the woman, who looked like she was about to die.

            "Shut up," Suicide snapped, glancing over his shoulder, and the punk fell silent.  His attention was drawn back when Moss moved forward, crushing slivers of glass underfoot with each step.

            "Don't try your luck," Suicide told him.

            "Take it easy," Moss said, still working his way towards him.

            "Hey, fuck you, asshole!"  Suicide moved forward as well and in a matter of seconds the two men were alone in the center of the room, save the grand piano that sat directly to the side.  Meanwhile, the collective party-goers were moving backwards, putting as much space between themselves and the gang as possible, almost as if the punks possessed some sort of intense heat that would burn them if they came too close.  "I know you sick Umbrella fucks did something to him," Suicide continued.  "You think you can just waltz in here and run the show?  This is my fuckin' town."  He lifted the bat and brought it crashing down on the piano with enough force to dislodge several of the keys (and enough noise—oddly reminiscent of Beethoven's Fifth—to make the majority of onlookers jump).  Kiselev flinched at the sound, watching as one of the ivory keys hit the floor, bouncing twice, with a pair of distinct clatters.  

Moss didn't even bat an eye.  "What's your friend's name?"

"Jacque," the female punk piped up.  Suicide shot her a dirty look and she fell silent.  

"Jacque what?" Moss asked.

Suicide seemed to deliberate for a moment.  He lifted the bat and the piano gave a C flat of protest.  "Jacque Kendall," he said, frowning at Moss.

"Look, this is how it is," Moss started, and he lowered his voice to an inaudible murmur.  Suicide lowered the bat after a moment, shaking his head.  He gave a closed-fist gesture to the other punks and they left, one by one, through the empty windowpane.  The blue gown-wearing guest was tossed to the floor and Suicide himself stepped out, giving the piano a final pounding as he did so.

Just like that, they were gone.  In the distance, the sound of sirens became increasingly loud and the commotion inside of the ballroom became noisy as well.

"What did you say?" a man standing near Kiselev asked.

"I just told him that the Mengs have probably already called the police," Moss said, running his hand through his hair.  "And they have."  He curled his arm around Kiselev's and whispered, "Let's skip dessert."

"My sentiments exactly," Kiselev said.  Suddenly, all she wanted was to go home and go to bed.  She thought back to her old job in Vancouver.  First it was viral weaponry and monsters.  Now they were dealing with punks with horrible fashion sense.  Was a little normalcy too much to ask for?  They thanked the Mengs and headed out, attempting to make a quiet exit, but Dan caught them before they reached the front door.

"The committee has agreed to let you sit in on a very important procedure," he told her, almost smiling.  "Perhaps you will even be allowed to participate.  We'll discuss it more later."

"Thank you," she told him, and the butler opened the door for them to leave.      They opted to walk back to their apartments, and the trip was a silent one.  Kiselev was tired.  She could tell that Moss was thinking about something, but she let it go.  She hugged her jacket tightly around herself as a gust of cold wind blew, ruffling the bottom of her dress.  What a day.


	9. Chapter 9

Resident Evil: Biohazard Within 

**Chapter 9**

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 409C

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18 1998  

10:37 AM

             It had been weeks since the incident at the Mengs' and Kiselev had been up to her elbows in work for the duration of them.  Lunch with Moss (and the occasional drink after work) was her only diversion from the bowels of level four.  She had declined, politely, two invitations to dinner from Dan, but their working relationship was hardly strained—indeed, her rejections, on account of business, seemed to give him a sense of satisfaction.  His only reaction was to nod, a small smile twinging his lips, and utter that he understood.

             When he came up silently behind her on a Wednesday morning, as was his way, she expected a third invitation.  She was partially correct.

             "A level five experiment will be going underway at thirteen hundred hours.  I'd like to request your presence.  I realize you may have previous engagements, but I'm hoping you will give this opportunity a higher priority."  He touched her shoulder, almost as an afterthought.  "It's a confidential procedure—routine, but significant.  It will give you a taste of Dr. Birkin's true contributions to the company.  They may be ready to promote you after this."

             Kiselev cleared her schedule for that afternoon.

             "Nervous?" Moss asked when she told him about it at lunch.

             "My stomach hurts," she said, though she wasn't certain it held the same meaning.

             Soon enough, she would find out what a level five experiment was actually like.

UMBRELLA LABS – Level 5, Corridor C

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18 1998  

12:54 PM

             The level five corridors looked much like those in level four though there were subtle differences.  There were no Oobs to speak of.  Instead, the halls were a maze of locks and security doors.  There were no glass observation windows along the hall, and as a result, every room seemed cut off from the rest of the complex.

             Kiselev kept stride with Dan as they walked down the halls.  Neither spoke until Dan slowed his pace.

             "You may find yourself surprised," he warned, "but keep your game face.  These particular experiments are strictly controlled.  Nothing can go wrong."

             Kiselev raised an eyebrow at him, but didn't ask him to clarify what he meant by "surprised."  She would find out soon enough.

             Experiment room 13B was spacious, with a long metal counter lining the front, followed by an island control panel, several tables, and a tall incubation tank with a light shield around it.  The microscopes and equipment at the counter were currently abandoned.  Rosen and Gray were both seated at the control panel.  Gray was mulling over a report of some type.  Rosen was idly stirring his coffee while looking bored.

             "Gentlemen, shall we begin?" Dan asked, taking his place at the control panel.  He motioned for Kiselev to take the spot next to him and she complied.

             Gray nodded slightly, and Rosen didn't even bother to respond.  Dan pressed several buttons and his action was accompanied by the blinking of a light marked "digital transcript."

             "Tryant experiment 1074," Dan said, his voice waves registering as green lines on a monitor near his elbow.  "Dimming lights in preparation for subject 94B, Kendall."  The lighting in the room was reduced to a dull twilight while Kiselev wondered why that name sounded familiar to her.

             Rosen stretched and popped his neck.  "Researcher's note: subject has proven to be particularly sensitive to light and electricity during previous experimentation.  Lighting has been adjusted an additional twenty-seven percent to compensate."

             The light shield methodically rolled up, revealing first human feet, followed by shins, thighs, torso, and finally, a shaved, tube-ladden head.  Kiselev tensed.  She'd attempted to mentally prepare herself for the inevitable—experimentation on human beings—but seeing the man in the tube before her was still a difficult lump to swallow.  Her palms were sweaty, and she clutched the sides of her lab coat to wipe them off.  If Dan noticed her discomfort he didn't acknowledge it.

             The man, Kendall, couldn't have been more than twenty, if even.  The exposed areas of his body were muscular in build, but beyond that she couldn't tell much about him.  His face was obscured by the network of tubes that had been inserted into his flesh.  She was still having trouble placing the name and it bothered her.  Maybe she had seen it in a lab report somewhere?

             "What you are looking at, Scientist Kiselev, is our most promising Tyrant candidate."  Dan said, flicking a switch and checking something off on his clipboard.  "The odds of creating a Tyrant type BOW with the T-Virus is quite slim—only about one in a hundred thousand.  All others simply revert to a zombie-like status.  They are stronger than normal humans, but ultimately, quite useless.  We have been experimenting with a more effective way to produce Tyrants, but it essentially involves injecting the host with a virus cocktail and a little bit of guesswork."  

             "You still don't understand how the virus works," Kiselev said, and her voice sounded far away, even to herself.

             "Unfortunately, no.  Dr. Birkin undoubtedly had greater insight, but his knowledge is lost to us.  All that remains is his more recent variation of the G-Virus and another sample that we have procured from a live host."  Dan handed her a printout.

             Live host?  Kiselev made a mental note and scanned the printout, searching for anything on it that might be useful.  The printout told the current variations of viruses that had been included in the experiment, as well as conditional factors such as temperature and light.  Kiselev noted that the virus didn't require any specific temperate to spread rapidly, though colder temperatures did seem to slow it down, at least marginally.  

             Rosen looked up.  "Ready to begin stimulation?"

             Dan nodded, then turned to Kislev again.  "We've found that stimulating the host—through radiation or extreme electrical impulses—often triggers additional mutations.  Or goal is to find the most effective type and dose of stimulation.  We'll be experimenting with high levels of radiation today."  He motioned to Rosen, who checked something on his panel and flipped a switch.

             The liquid surrounding Kendall's head erupted into bubbles as his mouth gaped in a watery scream.  Kiselev was unable to look away as Kendall's body jerked, writhing within the web of tubes.

             "There's a reaction," Rosen murmured, and Dan leaned forward, jotting notes from the instruments on his panel.

             "Increase by ten percent."

             Kendall began to thrash inside of the tube and, startlingly, he slammed his fist into the glass.  The glass cracked—only slightly—from the inside of the tube.  Kiselev estimated that he had caused less than a centimeter of damage, if even, in the thick incubator glass.

             "He's resisting."

             "Give him a jolt," Dan said absently, and Kendall punched the glass again, causing it to crack further.  Dan looked up sharply.  "I said—"

             "He's not responding anymore."

             Dan stood and his clipboard hit the floor, scattering papers.  "Increase light by fifty percent; electricity by thirty.  Issue a strong enough impulse to render him unconscious."

             Rosen did something and said, "It's not working."

             Kendall's eyes opened widely as he fought and his gaze—a milky blue—locked on Kiselev.

             "Increase lights by one hundred percent; electricity by thirty."

             Rosen flipped the switch.  Kendall's eyes bulged slightly as his body jerked for several moments before going limp.  Rosen dimmed the light completely and frowned.  "We may have to throw this one out," Rosen said, sighing.  "They go bad so quickly.  Must have used too much radiation last time."

             "No," Dan said thoughtfully.  "I want to find out what has caused his increased resistance.  He no longer seems to be effected by light.  We might be able to use this to our advantage.  Scientist Kiselev, do you—" he glanced over at her and stopped upon seeing her expression.  "Scientist Kiselev?"

             "I—I have to go," she stammered, her voice barely audible.

             "It's all right, Scientist Kiselev.  I assure you, the subject couldn't have broken the incubator tube.  The glass is reinforced and quite thick."

             Kiselev opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.  Kendall was dead—no, worse.  Even as she stared at the floating body she could swear she saw his eyelids flutter.

             Dan studied her for a moment, his expression indecipherable.  After a moment, he told her, "You are excused as you please."  

             She fled.

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 306D

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18 1998  

1:35 PM

             When she entered the office Moss was standing at the far file cabinet near the open equipment closet, humming to himself and flipping through a folder.  When he looked up and saw her his brows arched in surprise, and he had barely uttered, "Hey, Kiselev, what are you—" when she grabbed him forcibly, pushing him into the closet and shutting the door behind.  She clung to him as if she'd never let go, burying her face in his chest, and she felt it was the strongest, warmest, safest place she could be at that moment.

             "Milla, you're shaking," he said, folding his arms around her.  The comfort of being encircled in his embrace was not enough—her lips trembled, and after a moment tears sprang forth, dotting the front of his shirt until she turned her head to take a breath.

             He seemed to know instinctively what she needed from him and he didn't question or comment.  He merely held her until she finally broke the silence by saying, "They killed him."

             "Who?"

             "The subject—Kendall—Christ, he's not a subject, he's a person.  Now I'm talking like them.  They—I—killed him, mutated him or tried—I don't know.  I didn't stop them, I—"  
             "Easy, easy," he told her, his voice soothing.  "If you'd done anything to arouse their suspicions the UBCS would have been on you in a second.  Then you'd be the subject.  Milla, look at me."

             She looked up.

             "We'll stop them.  We will.  But you can't save them all.  It's terrible, what they're doing, but we've gone too far now.  And if you or I get caught we won't be able to help anyone.  Right?"

             She nodded dumbly and disentangled herself from him.

             "Hey…" he said softly, and she pushed away from him.

             "I need to go."

             "I'll wait for you tonight," he told her.

             She opened the closet door and vanished into the hallway, leaving him standing, alone, with the mops and the extra equipment gurney.  

UMBRELLA LABS – Front Walk

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18 1998  

10:04 PM

             As she stepped out onto the front walk, hugging her jacket tightly to herself for warmth, Moss was waiting.

             "I want you to meet someone," he said.

             They shirked their usual walk down brightly lit DeMarco Street in favor of a route that wandered pell-mell through a series of back alleys.  Their destination was Romero's, a run-down restaurant nestled in one of the seedier areas of Urale.  

             Inside, the restaurant was bustling.  The bar was packed with regulars, mostly hooting and yelling at the images that flickered across an ancient television.  A jukebox pumped out disjointed rock music while a handful of patrons danced or roughhoused amidst a pair of grungy pool tables and an old, dilapidated Pac-Man arcade machine.  The rest of the patrons were scattered among tables and booths throughout the restaurant.  A layer of smoke hung over the room, giving an eerie, foggish quality to the already dim lighting and musty atmosphere.

             Moss took her by the elbow, gently, and steered her towards a booth and a table in the back of the restaurant where several figures were sprawled, smoking, drinking, and talking amongst themselves.  Upon approach Kiselev recognized them as punks—more specifically, the punks that had shattered the picture window at the Mengs' house, the Wild Cards.

             Suicide noticed them first and acknowledged Moss with a nod of his head.  He motioned for them to sit across from him in the booth.  Moss slid across the seat and, after a slight hesitation, Kiselev sat next to him.  

             The other Cards paused their conversation long enough to give Kiselev a curious look.

             "She with us?" Suicide asked, his voice surly.

             Moss nodded.  "Milla, this is Suicide.  Joker, Queenie, Ace."  He gestured to the three Cards respectively.

             "I remember you," Ace said.  Suicide frowned at him and he lapsed into silence.

             "You were at that party with those pricks," Suicide said, and it was difficult to ascertain whether the comment was an accusation or a statement.

             Kiselev suspected that Suicide wasn't as tough as he tried to act.  "That's right," she said.

             "You know about Jacque?"

             She opened her mouth, then shut it.  Jacque… Kendall.  Of course.  She remembered now; when the Wild Cards busted into the Meng mansion, they had demanded to know where their friend was.  The look on her face must have been telling because Suicide's brow furrowed.

             "Look, lady, we know he's probably dead, but…  Just tell us already."

She shook her head slightly.  "He's still alive."  She glanced down at the table top.  "I'm sorry."

"No, wait, he's still alive.  Hah!  That's good, right?" Joker asked, leaning over to Suicide.  "Right, boss?  That's _good_."

Suicide cuffed him roughly and he jerked back into his seat.  "No, you idiot, that's not good.  Haven't you listened to a word he's been tellin' us?"  He thumbed towards Moss, then looked back at Kiselev, his face wrenched into a scowl.

"I couldn't do anything," Kiselev told him, her voice soft.  She wasn't sure he heard her—at first he didn't respond, but after a moment his scowl trickled away.  

"What could you do?" he asked bitterly.

Kiselev felt a swell of anger.  "What could I do?  Run this fucking company into the ground, that's what I could do.  That's what I will do."

"Yeah!"  Joker let out a little whoop, startling everyone at the table.  "That's what I'm talkin' about, lady!"

"Milla," Suicide said, sharply.  "Her name is Milla."  He gave her a pensive look.  "Moss told us good things about you.  Whatever happens, we've got your back."

"What's your real name?" she asked.

The question seemed to catch him off guard.  He drained the rest of his beer.  "Mark."

"I'm glad we're on the same team, Mark," she said.

And she was.

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 409C

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 19 1998  

11:13 AM

             There was a soft knocking at Kiselev's office door, and for once, it wasn't Dan.  James Cartier, the equipment specialist, poked his head into the room and said, "So, you've seen Tyrant."

             Kiselev swiveled in her chair and leaned back, a strand of hair falling between her eyes.  "The initial phase, yes."

             "Kinda scary, huh?" he asked, not unkindly.

             She gave him the barest of smiles.  

             "Me—" he held up his toolbox, "—I'm more into machines."  He hesitated, as if he were formulating a spur of the moment decision, and jerked his thumb towards the door.  "Want to take a break?  There's somebody I'd like you to meet."

*            *            *

             When the lights came on, Kiselev startled.  The hallway was long and white, accentuated by panels of mirrors on either side.  It was a sharp contrast to the lackluster offices and rooms that dotted level four.

             "It's okay," Cartier told her.  "They're motion sensitive."  He led her down the bright glass hallway and opened the security door at the end with ease.  "This is where she lives."

             "Who?" Kiselev asked, her shoulders tensing.  She'd seen enough monsters to last a lifetime.

             "The White Queen.  She controls everything in this complex."  He stepped into the room and said, "Good morning."

             The room was large and circular, empty except for several dark panels along the walls and a dark, raised platform in the center of the floor.  There were bars of light spaces around the outer circumference of the circle at regular intervals.  These switched on at the sound of his voice, along with something else:

             "Good morning, Mr. Cartier."  A white-tinted hologram of a curly-haired little girl in a dress materialized in the center of the circular platform.  The hologram paused in a way that made it seem almost human and added, "So nice to finally meet you, Ms. Kiselev."

             The utterance of her name, coupled by the White Queen's English accent and calculating tone, took Kiselev slightly aback.  "How do you--?"

             "I am aware of everything within this facility.  I control all of this complex's primary functions."  Then, to Cartier, "You are late.  I expected routine maintenance eight minutes and twenty-three seconds ago.  You must begin immediately if you wish to retain a semblance of your schedule."

             "Yes ma'am."  Cartier crouched down by one of the wall panels and slid it aside, revealing a network of wires and components.  "She's designed after the head programmer's daughter," he told Kiselev, his fingers navigating through the wiring as if it were a second nature.  Kiselev stepped around the hologram, studying it as he spoke.  "Each Umbrella research facility has a Queen system installed that controls all of the main operations.  She's one of the most advanced computer systems in the world."

             "I would be _the_ most advanced if it weren't for unfortunate limitations."

             "She takes her failsafe personally."

             "Negative.  I appreciate the logic of such measures," the hologram intoned.  Kiselev noted, with interest, that the computer did not protest to being given emotional attributes.  "However, it is regrettable that my activity is ultimately governed by irrational human thought."

             "That's my girl," Cartier said, giving a soft chuckle.  Then, to Kiselev, "She can get away with being smarmy because she's our ultimate line of defense.  Nothing gets past her."

             "I take my job very seriously."

             Kiselev found the way that the hologram's eyes seemed to bore into hers slightly unnerving.  "It's like you have a mind of your own," she whispered.  She was beginning to wonder if the machine knew about Moss and S.A.V.E… if the machine new about _her_.

             "She's adaptive, to some extent, but a machine is still a machine," Cartier said, not looking up from his work.

             The White Queen said nothing, but Kiselev could swear she saw the hologram give a slight smile.

             "Well, that's that," Cartier said, standing.  "You can stay and chat if you like…"  He winked at Kiselev.

             "That's alright," Kiselev said, sliding her hands into the pockets of her lab coat.  She gave the hologram a slight nod.

             "Nice to meet you, Ms. Kiselev," the Queen said.

             "And you."

             As Kiselev followed Cartier down the mirrored hallway, she could distinctly hear the computer's departing words—

             "I'll be following your career most closely."


	10. Chapter 10

**Resident Evil: Biohazard Within**

**Chapter 10 – The Beginning of the End**

UMBRELLA LABS – Office 409C

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27 1998  

10:17 AM

FROM: AUMB@UMBRELLA.LAB3.SUN (MSTRUNLKNG)

TO: MKISELEV@UMBRELLA.LAB4.SUN

SUBJECT: MEMORANDUM

Stay strong.  They speak highly of you.  It won't be long now before you gain the access you need.  I have information to give but the Queen is watching.  Be alert and I will find you in a safe place.  Delete this message.  

                At the sound of footsteps in the hall Kiselev's index finger reflexively hit a key, deleting the message.  She took a sip of her coffee, glancing up over the edge of her monitor as Delarose and an Oob she didn't recognize paused at the door.

            "All clear, Scientist?"

            She wondered what they knew—were they just aware of unauthorized memorandums or were they aware of the actual text of the messages themselves?  Or was it simply a coincidence altogether?

            "Yes, everything's fine," she said, leaning back in her chair.  "And yourselves?"

            Delarose gave her a small smile.  She liked him, she thought.  A little bit.  "Fine, Scientist.  Carry on."

            The two UBCS officers continued down the hall and Kiselev settled back into her work.  She had been receiving messages from her mysterious informant regularly ever since her initial exposure to the Tyrant project, but this was the first time MSTRUNLKNG had ever suggested a physical exchange of information.

            The risk would be huge.  What sort of information could possibly cause her informant to risk exposure?  She already knew about Umbrella's viral research.  What could possible be worth the risk?

            She glanced over her report a final time before printing out a hard copy.  Dan had been very gung-ho about her joining the Tyrant program.  He had been vouching for her, she knew, but she had other plans.  She had already told him that she was more interested in working with the virus directly, which was the truth.  There was nothing she could do for Jacque Kendall at this point, as he was beyond any sort of cure, and the sooner she was able to directly study the virus the sooner she would be able to understand how it functioned.  Then she could concentrate on finding a way to stop it or, better yet, destroy it.

            Dan, for his part, had given a valiant attempt to conceal his disappointment, but she had a feeling that he had expected as much.  She heard that Nicholai, however, was most pleased—it seemed that he had pegged her to work exclusively for the viral program from the beginning.

            That bit of information made her apprehensive, but she brushed it away.  At the moment she had a deadline to keep.  After observing the Tyrant program's progress for a mere week she had been asked to write a concluding report and present it to Nicholai in his office at 1030 hours.  It was almost time.  

UMBRELLA CORPORATE, OFFICE 602

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27 1998  

10:26AM

            Nicholai's door was open.  She took a small breath, knocked once, and stepped inside.  The office was as austere as she remembered, though there was a tiny Christmas tree perched on the far corner of his desk.  The tree made her take pause—she hadn't figured Nicholai as the type to put up Christmas decorations the day after Thanksgiving.  Nicholai was on the phone, so she took a seat and studied the tree for a moment.  Allowing her gaze to rest on the tiny plastic ornaments (rather than him) seemed like the appropriate thing to do.

            After a few terse words Nicholai hung up the phone and swiveled his chair to face her.  His intense blue eyes studied her as if she were some new specimen he had never seen before and she resisted the urge to fidget under his stare.  He always looked at her like that.  And it always made her uncomfortable.  She obediently held out her report to him, resting her hands patiently on the arms of the chair as he flipped through it.

            He skimmed the last page and flipped the report shut, turning his chair so that she was looking at his side profile.  She felt an eerie sense of deja vu.

            "I understand that you wish to transfer to the Level Five Viral Development Project," Nicholai said.  "Scientist Dan seems to think that you would be better suited on the Tyrant Project.  What do you think?"  His tone was very different than what she was used to; he spoke to her more as a colleague than a subordinate, now, and she took a moment to formulate a response.  

            "I'm very interested in studying the virus directly—improving it, making experimentation results more predictable.  I am less interested in the creation of BOWs."

            Nicholai gave the barest of nods.  "They've created a vile little gallery down there, haven't they?  BOWs of animal origin tend to display lower battle statistics, in any case.  Though projects such as Tyrant have returned impressive tactical data the process is too long.  Too expensive.  We've already established that human beings make the best weapons; now we only need to find ways to improve the virus itself."

            "I agree completely, sir," she said, and he turned to look her directly in the eye.

            "There is another matter which has come to my attention," he told her, and she repressed the urge to swallow the lump in her throat.

            "Sir?"

            "We think there may be a spy among us."

            Kiselev's blood ran ice-cold.  Between Nicholai's intense gaze and her trembling hands she was certain her heart would explode in her chest.  Nevertheless, she forced herself to maintain eye contact.  "Sir?" she asked again, and she found her voice to be surprisingly steady.

            "If you become suspicious of any individual, tell me immediately."

            "Yes sir," she said, and her mouth was dry.  

            "We suspect that he may be a former employee who was involved in the destruction of the lab underneath Spencer Mansion near—"

            "Director Nicholai," a voice interrupted, and Kiselev glanced over her shoulder to see an anxious-looking young man in a suit.  "Sir, I'm sorry to bother you, but the problems at the Sheena lab are bigger than we thought."

            Nicholai stood.  "Permission granted," he told her briskly.  "Your clearance will be transferred upon completion of all pending projects.  That is all, Ms. Kiselev," he said.

            Kiselev left quickly and quietly, and it wasn't until the elevator had nearly reached floor –4 that her pulse slowed to a normal speed.  The suspected spy was a former Umbrella employee, so they weren't onto Moss yet, but things had suddenly become much more dangerous.  Since Nicholai had told her about it he obviously trusted her—or was it just an elaborate ruse?  Was he aware of her involvement with Moss and, for whatever reason, wanted to see her sweat?

            She didn't know him very well, but she certainly wouldn't put it past him.  Nicholai seemed like the type who liked to watch people squirm.  She resisted the urge to run to her old office and tell Moss.  If Nicholai already knew who Moss was then it would be too late.  If he didn't, running to meet Moss after the meeting might cause them to suspect something.

              She took a detour to the Level Four break room instead, hoping a cup of coffee would calm her nerves, or at least give her something else to think about.  She selected a green and blue "Save the Earth!" mug and was pouring when Susan Meng greeted her cordially and nearly startled her into burning herself.

            "Oh, Milla, you're so jumpy lately," Susan tittered.  "You need to relax.  You work too hard."

            "I'm surprised to see you down here," Kiselev said, taking a tentative sip.

            "Ken and I are dabbling with a little bit of Chimera DNA today," Susan said, giving her trademark laugh.  "A little break from the rigors of the Hunter Project.  Actually, I'm glad I ran into you today.  Ken and I were wondering if you'd like to come flying with us sometime."  Kiselev raised her eyebrows, but before she could ask Susan continued.  "Ken and I pilot ultralight planes.  It's a hobby of ours.  I don't know if you saw the little dirt landing strip on the back lawn past the garden.  It isn't lit or paved and I didn't get a chance to give the grand tour.  Anyway, we try to run the planes a least once or twice a month barring bad weather."

            "Yes, I'd like that."

            "You could bring your boyfriend if you like…"

            "Oh."  Kiselev gave a laugh of surprise.  "You mean Moss?  No, we're just friends."

            "Of course," Susan said.   "What I meant was you can bring your cute _friend_ along, if you like."  She gave Kiselev a knowing wink.

            Kiselev could feel her cheeks getting warm—a blush was coming on, she just knew it—and she was thankful Moss wasn't there to see it.  "I'm sure he'd love to," she said.

            Susan gave one of her infectious smiles and Kiselev found herself smiling back.  "Great!  We may not be able to fly in December if the weather is lousy, but by January we usually have better luck.  I'll let you know when we decide to go out."  Susan gave her a half-wave.  "Excuse me, I should get this coffee back to Ken before it gets cold."  She walked off briskly, leaving Kiselev to sip absently at her own cooling coffee.  She glanced down at her watch.  She still wanted to talk to Moss, but she could wait until lunch, at least.

UMBRELLA GENERAL EMPLOYEE CAFETERIUM 

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27 1998  

1:02 PM

            "We've got all of this advanced technology," Moss mused, sitting across from her, "and they _still_ can't make good noodles."

            "You're a glutton for punishment," Kiselev told him.  She had long ago settled for a regimen of club sandwiches and salad.  Moss, however, insisted on trying everything, even entrees that could honestly be mistaken for toxic waste.  She inclined her head to the side slightly and said, in a low voice, "Sit next to me."

            He gave her a curious look and slid his plate over along with his chair.  "You just made me feel very warm inside.  Did you know that?" he asked, but seriousness tugged at the edges of his mouth when he saw her glance over her shoulder.  "What is it?" he whispered.

            She leaned over, pretending to adjust his collar.  "Nicholai warned me that there's a spy among us," she murmured, and she felt him tense under her hands.  "A former employee.  Can't say anymore here, but stay alert."

            "Two hundred percent," he murmured back, and his face was so close to hers that she felt his breath against her cheek.

            She pulled away with a satisfied, louder "There!" and surveyed her handiwork.  "You know, is it really too much to ask you to smooth your collar every morning?"

            "I'm a genius," he said, scooping up a forkful of noodles.  "I don't have time for outer appearances."  His banter was playful enough, but she could still sense his tension.

            "I heard from my Uncle," she continued.  "Uncle" was another name for MSTRUNLKNG.  They had established a number of code words for such matters that could be used in daily conversation.  Kiselev noted, ruefully, that she was turning out to be just as paranoid as Moss.

            "Really?  What'd he say?" he asked around a mouthful.

            "He said he had an early birthday present for me."

            The next forkful of noodles hesitated momentarily before completing its destination into Moss' waiting mouth.  "No kidding.  Did he give you any hints?"

            "No.  It's a total surprise."

            "What, did he send it in the mail already?"

            "That's a surprise too."

            "Hmm."  Moss chewed for a moment.  "I'm not sure what to make of that."

            "Me either."  Kiselev drained her glass of lemon water and stood, stretching.  "Want anything?"

            "Something edible would be a good start," he said, still working on his mouthful.  She swatted him with her napkin and went to the beverage bar, taking time to use a plastic fork to poke around in the lemon container and find one that wasn't too ripe.  She was standing in line to get a cup of fruit salad for Moss (she did pity him sometimes, after all) when someone bumped heavily into her from behind, causing her to lose half of her water and most of the salad.  She managed to keep her balance in spite of the rolling strawberries and banana slices and a voice said, "Oh, God, I'm so sorry!"

            Her offender, a fit-looking brunette, began to brush at her wet clothes with a napkin, still uttering apologies.  Nearby watchers quickly lost interest in the commotion and went back to their lunches.

            "It's nothing, really.  Just water," Kiselev was saying, reaching into her pocket for napkins of her own.  Her fingers brushed something unfamiliar there and she froze.

            The woman looked up at her and whispered, almost profoundly, "Don't tell anyone.  And don't trust him," and turned, vanishing into the throng.  Kiselev didn't follow her.  Instead, she returned to her seat, not realizing until she sat down that she had forgotten to refill her glass and get Moss another salad.

            "Hey, it's okay," he told her, misinterpreting her expression.  "You can pour some water on me, too.  Then we'll be twins."  He was working on a potato now, apparently having abandoned the noodles in favor of something more fit for consumption.

            "No, it's—" she hesitated.  _Don't tell anyone.  _"I was just thinking about…  The Mengs invited us to go flying with them sometime.  Would you like to?"

            The invitation seemed to catch him off guard.  "Uh, sure.  Yeah.  Of course I would."

            She nodded, the woman's warning still echoing in her mind.  Don't trust him?  Him _who?_  Nicholai sprang to mind.  Well, no worries there.  She didn't think she'd ever trust him, even if she wanted to.  She wanted to examine the contents of her pocket, but the woman, whoever she was, had obviously gone to great risk to—literally—bump into her.  The least she could do was respect her need for secrecy and wait until later.  In the meantime, she focused on her new status as a level five scientist.  Soon she would have access to all parts of the facility.  Now that the last major hurdle of her personal mission had been jumped, the real work could begin.

IMPERIAL APARTMENTS, #8B 

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27 1998  

7:31 PM

            Kiselev locked the doors and closed all of the shades.  Then, as she had done many times before, she checked her apartment for bugging devices and cameras.  As usual, her search turned up nothing.  She walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and sat down on the closed toilet seat, the tiled floor cold against her bare feet.

            She placed the envelope on her lap and, after looking at it for a moment, opened it.  Inside were an unlabelled disk and a letter:

I can only hope and pray that you're willing to trust me as I'm willing to trust you.  I managed to get to level three—they don't call me the Master of Unlocking for nothing!—but I could never have made it as far as you have.

I realize you may not be fully prepared to trust me, but you definitely shouldn't trust Umbrella.  I have evidence that Umbrella has conducted experiments on its own employees—the company has neither morality nor loyalty.  Hopefully the disk will prove that my intentions are good and explain some of the questions that I'm sure you have.  My only goal is to expose Umbrella and all the terrible things that they have caused.  If you procure a sample of the virus for me, I will make sure it gets out of Urale.  Then we will finally have hard evidence. 

I know I'm asking for a lot, but someone has to help me put a stop to all of this and you're the only one that can do it.  I'm confident you'll do the right thing.  I'll contact you again soon.

            Kiselev tore both the letter and the envelope into shreds and flushed them down the toilet.  She walked back into her bedroom and, after unplugging her laptop's Internet and network connections, inserted the disk.

            The disk contained volumes and volumes of letters, memorandums, and surveillance photos.  She felt her mouth open in a little "o" of surprise as she read.  According to the text, there had been an outbreak of the T-Virus in Raccoon City after an accident at the Raccoon labs.  This was only a few months after another outbreak at Spencer Mansion on the outskirts of Raccoon.  Intra-company memos showed that Umbrella had made no effort to stop the contamination—in fact, upon learning of the outbreak, Umbrella had rushed to "secure" the area so they could monitor the effects of the virus.  Umbrella had also unleashed at least one high-level B.O.W. in the city in order to gather battle data on it.  They had even gone so far as to attempt to stop the destruction of the city in order to use the entire area as a testing ground so that they could obtain additional battle data.  The U.S. government had had other plans, however, and Raccoon City was destroyed before the virus could spread further.

            She picked up the phone long enough to call Moss.  When he answered, all she said was, "Get over here," and he had already hung up the phone.

            She continued skimming through the documents.

            There had apparently been a handful of survivors and documents showed that Umbrella had put out bounties for several of them, including Leon Kennedy and Jill Valentine.  Though Jill had looked somewhat different in person than from her mug shot, the eyes were the giveaway.  It was her, all right.  Kiselev wondered briefly if Jill was the spy that Nicholai had been worried about but the thought abandoned her when she saw the next series of memos, detailing the observation and study of a "live specimen," a 12-year-old white female listed only as S.B.

            She was so absorbed in the information that when the doorbell rang she jumped, banging her knee on the underside of her desk.  She stood up, rubbing it.  "I've got to stop doing that," she muttered to herself, looking through the peephole before letting Moss in.

            He didn't say anything, he merely followed her into the bedroom.  He quickly scanned the first few lines of text and let out a low whistle.  Kiselev dragged over a chair for him and they pored over the files long into the night.

UMBRELLA GENERAL EMPLOYEE CAFETERIUM 

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 28 1998  

9:50 AM

            When Kiselev awoke she found herself neatly tucked into bed.  She yawned, stretching, and rubbed her eyes.  She didn't remember leaving the laptop.  She must have fallen asleep at her desk.  Judging from the way the comforter had been pulled up to her chin Moss must have put her to bed.

            The knowledge didn't feel as strange as it sounded.

            She rolled to her feet and found Moss snoring on the couch, one leg hanging off the edge, his hair tousled in all directions.  She left him and started a pot of coffee in the kitchen.  Either the smell or the beep of the coffee pot awakened him and moments later he staggered into the kitchen and sat down at the table, bleary-eyed.

            "How long did I last?" she asked, handing him a cup and sitting across from him.

            "Till about four," he said, yawning.  "I stayed up until six."

            "Did you finish it?"

            He nodded.  "Skimming, yeah.  It would take days to comb through all that information.  It's like picking through miles of tangled string."  He took a sip and glanced up at her, seeming more awake.  "MSTRUNLKNG sent you that?"

            Kiselev nodded.

            "Who is he?"  

She averted her eyes and stood.  "Want some eggs?  Or toast or something?"

"Milla, who is he?"

She attempted to evade him physically by busying herself with the toaster and some slices of bread, but he got up from the table and boxed her in between the refrigerator and the sink.  "I can't tell you," she said, opening the fridge and searching for jelly.

"How do you know you can trust him?"

"Giving me that information was a huge risk."

"Yeah, but what if he's just trying to reel you in?  What if he's trying to get you to expose yourself?  What if this is Umbrella's idea of a test?  Just drop me a name, Milla."

Kiselev frowned, shutting the door.  "Look, I told you, she said—"

The look of surprise that flashed across Moss' face forced her to take pause.  "…She?" he asked quietly.

"That's enough," she said, more sharply than she intended.  She couldn't help but feel cross at him—why did he have to push for this?  What did it matter?  "I was given a request to keep her identity a secret and, considering the lengths that she's taken to help me, it's the least I can do.  Besides, I wasn't even supposed to show you the disk and—are you even listening to me?"

He nodded, running his fingers through his hair.  "Yeah," he said, but he seemed distracted.  "Look, you're right.  It's not my business.  You're the one that's in the most danger.  It's up to you to weigh the situation.  I just want you to know that I'm here for you.  We're on the same side."  She turned away from him and he glanced over at her, leaning forward a little.  "Hey, you're not mad, are you?"  Her hands were working furiously and he leaned forward even further so he could see over her shoulder.

"Eat your toast," she said grumpily, sticking a jelly-covered slice in his face.

He complied.

UMBRELLA GENERAL EMPLOYEE CAFETERIUM 

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 30 1998  

1:27 PM

            Kiselev was sitting at her desk wrapping up her remaining tasks and minding her own business when all hell broke loose.  After the first scream she looked up, her glasses falling down on her nose, and by the second scream she was already at the door.  There was a short burst of gunfire and a pack of Oobs ran by the door.

            "Scientist, stay in your office," one warned as the group rushed by in a flurry of running legs and bobbing machine-gun barrels.  

            She was debating whether or not to comply when a hand grabbed her arm.  Dan urged her with him, breathing heavily as he jogged down the hall.  She followed.

            "What's going on?"

            "Ken's newest Chimera hybrid.  We began isolating them in development and adding the G-Virus to see what mutations would result.  I believe a technician has been devoured."

            "_What_?  It escaped?"

            He motioned her into a lab at the curve of the hall and she followed as he wove he way through tables filled with microscopes and equipment.  "They sealed off that particular hall, as they always do, but Chimera tend to return to familiar areas when threatened.  It was raised in the lab adjoining this one…" he trailed off as he reached a large shutter against the wall and pressed the up button.  The metal shutter slowly opened, revealing the adjoining laboratory, which had been trashed.

            The commotion was even louder here and after a moment, as Dan has predicted, the Chimera lumbered into the lab and began flailing wildly.  The creature had something in its mouth and it took Kiselev to recognize it for what it was—a clothed human limb (an arm, perhaps) with tendons and chunks of flesh hanging out one end like bloody streamers.  The creature itself contained only a semblance of the human form.  It was hardly more than tissue, muscle and bone itself, all haphazardly stretched across a frame that was significantly larger than a human while still maintaining a similar bipedal posture.  Parts of the creature seemed grossly abnormal, however.  A long, muscular tail with a barb at the end and a large, solitary eyeball on the creature's shoulder were more obvious results of exposure to the G-Virus.  As for the rest of the creature, well… she had never seen a "normal" Chimera before, so she wasn't sure how much of the creature had mutated.

            Kiselev nearly had her nose pressed to the glass in spite of herself.  It was difficult to believe that the thing in the room next to her was real and not some incredible special effect.  She could feel Dan's presence behind her, but even that was insignificant in the face of this terrible beast.__

            "Isn't it amazing?" Dan asked, placing one hand to the glass.  "I've seen many controlled tests, but you can never truly appreciate these creatures until you see them on the loose, unrestrained.  The way they were created to be.  I was going to save Chimera to show you when you officially entered level five, but I couldn't pass up this opportunity.  Watch how quickly it moves."

            Three Oobs ran into the room, firing rounds that caused the creature's skin to sizzle and steam.  Acid rounds.  The Chimera let out a scream of rage and charged forward.  One soldier wasn't fast enough and he was impaled on the creature's claws.  The Chimera moved quickly, biting into the neck and causing a spray of blood to squirt across the floor and dot against the glass that Kiselev and Dan were looking through.

            The other Oobs kept firing at the creature, even as it gored the poor soldier and carelessly threw his remains aside with a toss of its head.

            "Magnificent," Dan was saying, very close to her ear, and then, "I wanted to share this with you…"  He was standing very close, but her shock at the scene unfolding before her delayed any urge she might have had to move away.

            Acid rounds continued to pepper the Chimera and, quickly, its exposed skin and muscles began to sizzle.  The creature was certainly doomed now but it continued to surge forward.  Another soldier narrowly missed being dragged forward, as his unfortunate coworker had been, and the Chimera merely succeeded in giving him a deep gash in the chest.  Blood quickly welled up from the wound—apparently the creature's claws had gone clean through the UBCS body armor.  The man struggled to stand, blood splattering on the floor and running down the front of his armor in fast-moving lines.

            "Can you imagine… to have such power…" Dan said, and Kiselev felt his leg move against her.  

            Then she realized it wasn't his leg.  This knowledge came with a sharp stab of revulsion and she jerked away from him, even as he stood staring through the glass, his breath fogging the window.  He seemed transfixed on the beast that struggled mere meters away and he ran his fingers down the glass slowly as if he might somehow connect with the creature for a moment—as if he might somehow touch it.

            He didn't seem to notice her disgust or her movement; indeed, he was riveted to the Chimera's final struggle.  She turned her attention back to the window and saw that, beyond, the creature's will was waning.  She watched carefully as the Oobs surged forward, but not because she derived some sort of perverse pleasure from watching it.

            She wanted to know how to kill the damn thing.


End file.
